


Radio Friendly

by clio_jlh



Series: Radio Friendly 'verse [1]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, First Time, Gay Male Character, Humor, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Music, Musicians, RPF, Romance, Songwriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-21
Updated: 2007-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/pseuds/clio_jlh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label.  Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear—and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come to Where the Flavor Is

**Author's Note:**

> For the soundtrack, just click on the song links throughout the fic and they'll launch in a separate window.  
> You're reading this story because [](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**lillijulianne**](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/) was so enthusiastic and [](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/)**allysonsedai** insisted that it see the light of day, were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blake Lewis gets a new songwriting partner.

_February 19, 1962_

"Good morning Mr. Lewis!"

"Pasha, Pasha," Blake Lewis replied, "how many times do I have to tell you that there is nothing good about mornings?" His small frame was slumped against the counter of the coffee stand in the Brill Building lobby, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

" 'Nother one of them three night weekends, sir?" Pasha asked as he handed over the Post and a strong cup of Russian Caravan tea. "Bet you had a different girl every night, ah?"

Blake grinned. "In a manner of speaking. But you know how it is, Pasha; you can't fool me."

"It depends on whether they think I'm a spy," the young man answered in his thick Russian accent.

"Better if they don't?" Blake asked, setting two quarters on the counter.

Pasha leaned in conspiratorially. "Better if they do," he replied, winking.

Blake winked back, laughing, then headed to the 14th floor. Checking his watch, he thought it safer to walk through reception and risk running into an aspiring—or worse, rejected—singer than go in the back door next to his boss's office.

Luckily the chairs were empty. A blonde receptionist sat behind an imposing desk, wearing a headset like an operator. "Good morning, Syco Records," she said sweetly into the phone with a plummy British accent. She looked up and saw Blake walking toward the door behind her. "I'm sorry, he's in a meeting just now. Can I take a message?" As she spoke, she quickly rolled her chair sideways, stretching out one long leg to block him from getting through the door. "Right, I'll let him know. Thank you."

"C'mon, Cat," Blake said. "I'm late as it is."

"Mr. Cowell has been looking for you all morning."

"Is he growling?"

"Like a bear."

Blake grimaced. "All right, I got it. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200."

Cat pulled her leg back.

As Blake walked past her he said, "Don't think you can push me around just because you're a foot taller than me."

"Tell it to the Army, Blake," she replied.

Blake walked quickly down the narrow hall, slurping the rest of his tea and chucking the styrofoam cup into the trash in an unused office. He straightened his jacket and tie, smoothed down his hair, put on his most winsome smile, and entered Cowell's office.

"Mister Lewis," Cowell said. "Thank you so much for joining us this morning."

Blake just shrugged, doing his best to appear charming.

"I'd like you to meet a new songwriter we've just hired, Chris Richardson. Richardson, this is Blake Lewis."

The man who had been sitting in one of the guest chairs, back to Blake and therefore unnoticed by him, stood and turned toward him, hand extended. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lewis," he said in a soft southern drawl.

"Please, call me Blake," he replied, returning the other man's firm grip, though only his manners kept him from gaping.  Richardson looked to be a little younger than Blake and judging from his physique and haircut, freshly out of the service. He was also one of the most handsome men Blake had ever seen— and Blake Lewis had seen a great many handsome men.

Then Richardson smiled, and Blake _knew_ he was the most handsome man he'd ever seen, and all he could think was, _shit_.

Leave it to Cowell to make it better and worse at the same time. "I want you two to work as a team."

Blake tore his eyes away from Richardson's clear green ones. "What?"

"You know I believe in your talent, Lewis," Cowell said, "or you wouldn't still be here. But mid-list hits won't pay your salary and you're far too ambitious to be satisfied writing filler tracks for LPs."

Blake looked down, played with a frayed edge of one of the guest chairs. He couldn't argue with Cowell, but that didn't mean he wanted to hear it from his often arrogant British boss in front of the most handsome man he'd ever seen.

"Richardson here," Cowell went on, "has an excellent sense of pop song construction, a good ear for a hook, and interesting lyrics."

_Well_, Blake thought, _if he's such a genius what does he need me for?_

"But his songs are, well, a bit boring. There's no spark, no shiny bits to hide the machinery. Friendly, but not particularly memorable."

Blake looked at the kid, who winced, and he couldn't blame him. Cowell was a bit much, in more ways than one, but he was always direct, always fair, and worst of all, always _right_.

"So you see, you two will balance each other perfectly. I expect hits from you immediately. Right, off you go. Lewis will give you the lay of the land."

"Thank you, sir," Richardson was saying to Cowell. "You won't regret it."

Cowell looked up, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Of course I won't. You two are going to make me rich." He turned to his mail, which was about as much of a dismissal as he ever gave.

Blake walked out into the hall, Richardson beside him. "You'll get used to him," Blake said. "And he'll make you a better songwriter."

A head of short curly hair poked out of one of the offices. "Seventeen!" he said in a whisper-shout. "What did Cowell want?" Then, seeing Richardson, he added in a normal voice, "Oooh, who's your boyfriend?"

Blake turned to Richardson. "This is Chris Sligh," he said, pointing at the other man. "He's talented, arrogant and funny as hell. Sligh, this is Chris Richardson, my writing partner as of today."

Sligh let out a low whistle. "No more lone wolf for our golden boy? Welcome to the big time, Richardson," he said, shaking hands.

"I'd say call me Chris," Richardson said, "but you're Chris, too."

"Nah, even my wife calls me Sligh, and she _is_ a Sligh. Phil! Come meet the new kid!"

"What?" asked a tall bald man emerging from the office. "Hi! I'm Phil Stacey."

"Chris here is Seventeen's new partner," Sligh said.

"Well!" Phil said. "We should all have lunch then!"

"Sure," Blake said, moving down the hall to his own office before Phil and Sligh could start in on the teasing. With the morning he was having, he didn't think he could handle it with the good humor he usually had—or wanted to display in front of Handsome Chris, as he was already calling him in his head.

Chris scurried after him. "Nice to meet you," he said to the others.

"This is it," Blake said, unlocking the door and hitting the light. The small windowless room was dominated by a stand-up piano and bench. An extra chair and the top of the piano were covered with staff paper and a guitar was propped up in the corner.

"So," Blake said. "I guess we can start with you playing me whatever you sent to Simon and we'll see where that takes us." He cleared off the chair and curled into it, cradling the guitar in his lap.

"Aren't you going to close the door?" Chris asked.

"Nah. Everyone else in the building is going to come check you out anyway."

Sure enough, it took only a few minutes before they were visited by a husband and wife team, Kelly Clarkson and Chris Daughtry, who also went by his last name. Another writing team, Brandon Rogers and Tamyra Gray, were cousins who'd been making music together since they were little. Elliott Yamin was an assistant producer, while Taylor Hicks was an A&amp;R man, looking for new artists for the label. They pulled Cat out of the office and had lunch at a Jewish diner around the corner, to give Chris a real welcome to New York.

After lunch Chris said, "So, Syco is integrated," referring to Brandon and Tamyra.

"Is that a problem?" Blake asked.

"I just got out of the navy. I wasn't allowed to have a problem with it. It's just unusual."

"Well, we are," Blake said.

Chris cleared his throat, and reached for another of his songs. Before he played it, he said, "Why do they keep calling you 'Seventeen'?"

"Um, it's the highest one of my songs has gone on the charts," Blake said, tuning the guitar in his lap.

"Why don't they have nicknames?"

"They've all had number ones."

Chris winced in sympathy. "We'll change that."

"You that sure of yourself?" Blake asked, looking up.

"Aren't you?"

Blake grinned. "Of course."

Chris looked down at the piano. "What was that song that went to 17?"

"'She Loves the Way.'"

"'She Loves the Way'? By Ace Young?" Chris asked.

"Yeah."

"That was a great song!"

"Yeah?" Blake asked, suddenly thinking maybe this kid was all right, in addition to being devastatingly handsome.

"Yeah, I really dig that song. It's not really pop, but—"

"What do you mean, not really pop?"

"Well, it's got a great hook and it's certainly memorable, but I can't tell where it's going. It sort of meanders."

"I don't like structure. It's limiting."

"But that's what pop is. Pop is like mac and cheese: you know what you're going to get. You're hoping for a little surprise, but not enough of one that it doesn't satisfy your craving for mac and cheese. If people want to listen to music that meanders, frankly, they'll listen to jazz."

"Yes, but I listen to jazz and I also listen to pop."

"Then write jazzy pop. Right now you're writing poppy jazz that no one wants."

"And you?" Blake asked, wondering if this kid really thought he had all the answers.

"Apparently I'm writing boring pop that no one wants," he replied, shrugging with a casual self-deprecation that made Blake decide he liked him again. "Well, here's another one." Chris started up on the piano, playing a bright peppy little song.

"Any words?" Blake asked.

"Nah, just melody," Chris replied. "I was thinking about the beach when I wrote it but there are plenty of beach songs."

"The hook—it's catchy but you need to change it up. Here." Chris slid over and Blake plopped next to him on the piano bench. He played the verse again, but this time modulated the transition, playing a bridge section in a different, minor key that sounded wistful. "The end of summer, maybe?" he asked, smiling at Chris, then bringing it back to the happy chorus.

"That's so much better," Chris said. "I could write words to that. It's—"

"Defiant," Blake said. "Hopeful in spite of, well, whatever 'it' is."

"Yeah. I can relate."

"I think most people can. Here," Blake said, sorting through the staff paper on top of the piano. "This is just a bunch of ideas strung together. It isn't really a song yet." Blake was a little nervous—he'd never played anything so unfinished in front of anyone else, but maybe he'd get used to it. He tried not to notice the way they were squashed against each other on the bench, or that Chris had turned slightly, putting his hand on the wall behind Blake, or how intensely Chris stared at him through those green eyes.

Chris grabbed one of the pencils from the ledge. "May I?"

"Sure," Blake replied.

Chris started writing on the paper, making lines and arrows. "If we move these eight bars here, I think they'll transition better into this next bit than what you've got, and then you can move that bit after, and this section we should take out because it belongs in some other song, but it's really good so we should keep it someplace. Can you follow that?"

"Yeah," Blake said, and played it again as Chris suggested, and there it was, a song. An unfinished song—it still needed some work—but at least it _was_ a song. "How did you do that?"

"I dunno, I've just always been able to see structure. I was really good at math and puzzles as a kid." He rose up slightly, looking through the messy pile on top of the piano. "Let's try this one."

And so they went on, that day and the next, going through a backlog of half-baked ideas, shaping each into a nearly finished song or, as Chris put it, "selling it for parts." By the end of the week they had five solid tunes and several more that just needed some work. For the first time in a while, Blake was looking forward to the Tuesday pitch meeting with Cowell's team of producers.

"So," Blake asked Friday as they walked out of the building, "that place you're staying have a curfew?"

"Naw," Chris replied. "It's not the Y. An Army buddy of Dad's, he lives out in Astoria, has an apartment over his garage. My own entrance and all."

"Wanna hear some real music tonight?" Blake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pack of Luckies.

"You bet," Chris said, taking the offered cigarette. "Where and when?"

"Meet me back here, oh, 9:30," Blake said. "We can catch the second set and then go to the after hours club."

"What I'm wearing is good?" Chris asked. "I don't wanna look like a square."

Blake smiled, looking at Chris in his dark suit and skinny tie. He looked great, of course, but Blake wasn't sure it was entirely possible for Chris to not look like a square. "You're fine."

"All righty," Chris replied, grinning around his cigarette. "See you!"

They waved and headed in opposite directions along Broadway. As Blake walked to the IRT, he was really glad that he had a dinner date in the Village, really glad that Jack was a sure thing, because he really needed a quick fuck to burn off his lust for his straight-as-an-arrow writing partner, lest he make a complete ass of himself later.

He just really doubted that it would work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Brill Building still exists, on the corner of 49th St and Broadway, just above Times Square, and had labels, publishing companies and recording studios. Syco really _is_ the name of Simon's record label, which is now part of Sony/BMG, so that's his joke, not mine. In the early 60s, people were still smoking like chimneys, and Chris and Blake, being in the music business, would be no exception. Greenwich Village, where Blake lives, is the gay neighborhood (they didn't start moving north to Chelsea until much later). And at the time, the NYC subway was referred to by line, rather than the letters and numbers we know now, so Blake's hopping on the now-1 to the Village, which was the IRT.


	2. Come to Where the Flavor Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris Richardson shows what he's made of.

_February 23, 1962_

Chris stood against the wall of the Brill Building, smoking a Marlboro. _New York City_. He still could hardly believe he was here. Every night after work he'd wandered the streets, getting the feel for the neighborhoods, listening in on conversations. He'd ducked into tiny places for dinner—manicotti and cannoli in Little Italy, brown bread and borcht at a vodka room in midtown, kielbasa and pierogi on the lower east side. In Chinatown he'd had dumplings and noodles in gravy in a little place that was nothing like the chow mein joint back home. It wasn't enough in New York to be merely American; you had to have foreign roots, too, though being Southern seemed to count for something at least. That night he'd stumbled upon a street called Little Brazil where he found the grilled meats and rice and beans that he remembered from his naval tour of South America.

He could see Blake walking toward him from a long way down Broadway. He leaned back and allowed himself a good stare. Blake was sauntering, his hair shining under the bright-as-day lights of Times Square. He looked completely in his element, but he also seemed to Chris to be the sort of fellow who was always in his element, and certainly always in motion. Even when he wasn't moving the air around him crackled with energy; Chris was excited that Blake wanted to take him along after they'd known each other for such a short time. He wondered what Blake looked like when he was still, but that would probably mean being asleep.

A vision: Blake sleeping in the sun, cool white sheets around bare shoulders, peaceful weekend morning, and Chris leaning over to kiss him awake. Blake smiles, opens those golden brown eyes, murmurs, "Hi, Chris."

"Chris? Helloooooo?"

Chris shook his head. "Sorry! Hi!"

"Eh, I'm always daydreaming, too," Blake said. "The club is down this way," he said, walking along 52nd street. "Have a good evening?"

"Great," he said, though he was still annoyed that he'd let himself have those sort of thoughts about his new partner, who had the air of the womanizer about him. "Just exploring the city." Next week, he swore to himself, he'd look up one of those places that his navy buddy Matt had told him about. Surely having a real date would keep him from the impure daydreams.

"Lifelong project," Blake said. "Every time you get to know a place, it changes. New York is new all the time."

"Back home nothing really changes. Old houses, old people, old ideas. I guess that's why I joined the Navy."

"See the world?"

"Something like that. And you, did you have a good evening?"

Whoever first described a grin as wolfish must have been talking about Blake, Chris thought, because it was as though he had fangs. "A gentleman never tells," he said.

"A gentleman like you doesn't have to," Chris replied. "It's written all over your face."

Blake shrugged. "Irresistibility is a curse as much as it is a blessing. You should know."

Chris cocked his head. "Me? I'm not irresistible."

Blake looked him up and down, intently, and Chris would have sworn he was checking him out, except for the part where he couldn't be. "If that's your story," he said, finally.

"I'm sticking to it," Chris replied, trying to smile, though he felt a bit like a bug pinned to cardboard.

"You do that."

Chris quickly changed the subject. "Was that Ryan Seacrest, the DJ, that I saw walking out of the office with Cowell a few minutes ago?"

Blake chuckled. "Yeah. They like going out on the town together. They're close friends."

"Going out on the town? But isn't Cowell married and Seacrest single?"

"Infamously so, actually. It's sort of complicated. Well, the club's right here. Gabi!" Blake shouted.

A youngish man in a slim suit and sunglasses sat on a high stool under a sign that said "Club Caravan" in old-fashioned cursive letters. He had thick straight black hair and brown skin, which reminded Chris of the locals he had met in South America. "Mr. Lewis," he said, smiling warmly. "Haven't seen you in a few weeks."

Blake shook Gabi's outstretched hand. "Trying to buckle down but it didn't work. Gabi, this is Chris Richardson. He is my new writing partner and therefore should be accorded any and all of the rights and privileges to which I have become accustomed. Chris, this is Gabriel Sanchez, and he is much stronger than he looks."

Chris shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Gabi."

"Likewise. Go in, go in. They will all be glad to see you." He leaned into Blake. "Melinda particularly."

Blake winced, and Chris wondered if he'd broken hearts all over town. That certainly would make going around with him more interesting, and give Chris more resolve to take his crush and bury it in the backyard. "When did they start?" Blake asked, checking his watch.

"Coming up on the last song of the set," Gabi said, "so you've got good timing." He laughed.

Blake sighed. "Well, let's go in. May as well get it over."

Gabi, still laughing, pushed open the door and waved them both in.

Inside Chris was relieved to find that it looked like any other club he'd been in, except that the crowd was mixed, black and white and even a couple of Chinese people. He followed Blake to a table near the front of the stage. The instant they sat down a waiter appeared, and moments later Blake's gin &amp; tonic and Chris's bourbon &amp; ginger were sitting in front of them. Up on the stage, a small woman was singing a jazzy melody that Chris didn't recognize but Blake seemed to as he nodded his head counter to the beat. But as Gabi had said at the door, it was the last song of the set, so before Chris had really settled in the woman was finished and asking everyone to drink up during the set break. Chris was unsurprised that she made a beeline for their table.

"Well where have you been, little one?" she asked as she sank into one of the empty chairs.

Blake grinned, the charming smile Chris remembered from the day they met, and said, "I was trying to get above seventeen, Melinda. Forgive me?"

"And who is this young man? You've never—"

"This is my new songwriting partner," Blake said quickly. "Chris Richardson, meet Melinda Doolittle. We've already written five songs together, Mindy."

"Whose idea was this, yours or Mr. Cowell's?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"His, but he was right this time. Really. I think we'll get on the chart together." He smiled at Chris, a bright yet conspiratorial smile, and Chris grinned back. Crush or no, they definitely had musical chemistry, which was more to the point.

Melinda looked back and forth between them, and then said, "I'm sorry, where are my manners? So pleased to meet you, Chris. Any friend of Blake's is welcome here."

"Thank you," Chris said, shaking her hand. "I appreciate that, being new to the city and all."

Melinda sat back. "A southern boy? Where are you from?"

"Virginia. And you?"

"Tennessee. Welcome to the city."

"Thanks."

"Blake usually sings a number with the band late in the set," Melinda said. "Would you like to come up on the stage?"

"Well," Chris said, looking at Blake, "I haven't played in public since I got here. If it's all right?"

"Okay with me," Blake replied, sticking his chin forward just slightly and tipping his head back. "New York audiences can be a little rough, though, even friendly ones."

"I can handle myself on a stage just fine," Chris replied.

"Great," Melinda said. "Well, I need to go fix my face, so if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," she said, standing.

"I don't see anything that needs fixing, Miss Doolittle," Chris said.

"Would you listen to him?" she asked, a hand on her hip. "Blake, you'd better watch out for this one. He might be able to outcharm even you."

"No might about that," Blake replied. "I think the accent gives him an unfair advantage."

Chris shrugged, though inside he was surprised that Blake had noticed him as a whole person, rather than just a musical mind, since they'd spoken about almost nothing but music the past week. "I'll use whatever advantages God gave me."

"He gave you more than that, son," Melinda said with a pat on his shoulder, then walked away.

"What do you think she meant?" Chris asked.

Blake looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "Friend, you know exactly how handsome you are," he said. He took a gulp of his drink, then stood. "I'll introduce you to the rest of the band," Blake said, turning toward the stage.

Chris rose to follow, glad that Blake was facing in the other direction, because he was pretty sure he was blushing.

The second set was a showcase for Melinda's versatility, and Chris was amazed at her command of both the songs and the crowd. She could sing anything she wanted to, clearly, and she was like a chameleon as she moved from Gershwin standards to gospel to even a pop song of Blake's that was turned inside out.

"I almost didn't recognize it," Chris said to him.

"Yeah, I rearranged it for her," Blake replied. "Never did like the recorded version."

There was no chance for Chris to reply, as Melinda was beckoning from the stage. "Now, the young man who wrote that song is with us tonight after far too long an absence. Help me get Blake Lewis up here so he can lay a little vocalese on us!"

[Yardbird Suite](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Yardbird_Suite/23186605)

Blake smiled, laughing a little, as the crowd applauded. He hopped up onto the stage, gave Melinda a peck on the cheek, and nodded to the band, who dutifully started a mid-tempo syncopated beat. Blake snapped his fingers, getting into the groove of the music, then turned to the mike and opened his mouth.

> _I sing this song hoping you'll all find out  
> The man who wrote the Yardbird suite  
> Leave you no doubt, tell you about  
> Charles Yardbird Parker was his name …_

Only, what came out of his mouth wasn't exactly singing. Chris had heard Blake sing, and he had a pretty good voice, but this wasn't his regular voice. He was singing words, so not exactly scatting, but making his voice sound almost like an instrument, a saxophone or something. The melody certainly rose up and down in a way that a horn solo might, with little passages of very fast notes, and the audience seemed to recognize what he was singing, though Chris, who was much less versed in jazz than Blake, didn't. But he could sit back and enjoy the way the sound hit his ear, the way that Blake seemed lit from within, singing out there without a net, free of every restriction, trading solos back and forth with the other musicians. When he finished the audience burst into applause and with a little bow, and a nod to Melinda, Blake hopped off the stage as quickly as he'd hopped onto it.

"That was fantastic," Chris enthused as Blake sat down.

"Thanks," Blake said, taking another swig of his drink. "I'm really, I'm glad you liked it." He smiled again, and Chris realized that he had seen that lit-up look on Blake before, in their little writing room when something was working particularly well.

"Isn't he something?" Melinda was saying up on the stage. "Yeah, that's right. Now tonight, Blake brought us a surprise—his new songwriting partner. And that young man has agreed to get up and sing us something, too. Put your hands together for Mr. Chris Richardson!"

Now, Chris already had a good enough idea of Blake's talent to know that he'd do something amazing and unexpected up on that stage. He just hadn't thought he'd have to immediately _follow_ Blake, He'd been wracking his brain trying to think of what song he might sing, but the sort of light sweet melodies that he often favored wouldn't do after what Blake had done. Besides, Blake deserved to know what Chris was capable of; it was only fair. And then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he knew exactly what to sing.

"Nervous?" Blake asked him as he stood up.

[What'd I Say](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/What_I_d_Say_Parts_1_and_2/6118242)

"Not a bit," Chris answered, slapping Blake on the back as he walked up to the stage. He went right up to the mike stand. "I'm new in town," he said, exaggerating his accent just a little, "so you'll forgive me if I hide behind the piano while I sing, won't you?" As the audience applauded again, he turned to the band and assured them that they'd easily be able to follow him, and Bill graciously gave up the piano bench to him. He sat for a moment, looked over at Blake, and winked, then started laying down a bass line that even the audience knew, and they responded with applause. Blake walked over to where Melinda stood, near the bass player and smack in Chris's field of vision. Chris knew he needed that little kick of sex to make the performance work, and he was just drunk enough not to care about singing it to Blake. After all, anyone might reasonably think he was singing to Melinda.

> _Hey mama don't you treat me wrong  
> Come and love your daddy all night long  
> All right now …_

If he closed his eyes he could almost be back in one of those little clubs that he didn't tell his mother he went to. But then, if he closed his eyes he wouldn't be singing to Blake, and the song wouldn't be going over.

> _See the girl with the diamond ring  
> She knows how to shake that thing  
> All right now …_

Blake was looking right at him, with a little surprise but also a challenge, as if wondering if mild-mannered Chris could really pull it off. Chris wondered if the piano was as good as a phone booth, and could turn him into Superman right on this here stage.

> _Tell your mama, tell your pa  
> I'm gonna send you back to Arkansas  
> Oh yes ma'am, if you don't do right…_

Usually Chris sang the long version, especially in the service when there wasn't much else do to out at sea, but he was a guest of these nice folks. He sang another verse, and a couple of choruses with the horns, and then it was time to show Blake he wasn't bluffing and take it to the bridge. "All right now," he said to the crowd, "you know what to do!" He leaned into the mike, looking at Blake, and groaned, "Uhmmm."

Blake and Melinda led the crowd, groaning back: "Uhmmm." And back and forth they went, shorter and shorter, and then Chris went back into the chorus.

> _One more time  
> Just one more time, now_

Blake and Melinda had adopted the Raelettes' part, chiming in the response in the chorus. Chris didn't dare sing "make me feel so good" to Blake, though, and took that moment to turn out to the crowd. He brought it to a close after that; he wasn't sure he could keep his cool any longer under Blake's darkening gaze. The crowd burst into applause, and Chris clapped too, for the band who had followed him so easily, for Melinda and Blake, and sure, a little for himself, and bowed. After all, he wasn't a blind black man from Georgia, so he couldn't blame the crowd for being surprised by his performance. He wasn't sure there were that many white soul singers around Manhattan.

Back at the table Blake pulled out a Lucky and said, "At least I'll never be able to say you held out on me."

Chris laughed. "You deserved to know what you were dealing with."

Blake cocked his head, studying Chris. "Well, now I know," he said, and his voice had an odd note in it.

Chris looked up from lighting his own Marlboro, and he was struck by the look in Blake's eyes. He felt something enormous rush over him. Time slowed down. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, but all the other sound from the room dropped away—even the other sights. There was only Blake, staring at him, lit from behind.

And then it went away, as quickly as it had come. Later they went to an after party at another bar, and a very late night supper at Melinda's apartment uptown where he ate the first proper Southern food he'd had since he'd arrived in New York (Blake made fun of him for actually liking greens), and they sang and played a great deal more before finally dragging themselves home in the wee sma's. Years later, Chris wouldn't remember much that happened that night, would scarcely recall even what he or Blake had sung in that club. But he never forgot how Blake looked, sitting at that table and staring at him as though he were a particularly rare sort of butterfly, one that he hadn't figured out how to catch.

Well, not yet, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What'd I Say" was a #6 Pop and #1 R&amp;B hit in 1959, so the crowd would definitely recognize that opening bass line. "Yardbird Suite" was a jazz classic by Charlie Parker that Bob Dorough put lyrics to in 1956. Dorough was also the songwriter behind Schoolhouse Rock and sang several of the songs, including "Lolly Lolly Lolly" and "Three is a Magic Number."


	3. This Is the One They'll Have to Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blake Lewis makes an interesting discovery.

_March 29, 1962_

Blake knew, in his rational mind, that miracles neither happened nor were necessary for success. All he and Chris needed to show for such a young partnership was a better record than he'd had lately on his own, which wouldn't be particularly difficult. And they'd done well at their very first pitch meeting a month ago. Randy Jackson, the producer who helped Simon create his Syco Sound, heard the soul that Chris had put into the new tunes and grabbed one of them, with lyrics written by Chris, for the Kittens.

But Blake's fantasy mind, the one that had been writing the script for "The Blake Lewis Story" (soon to be a major motion picture starring Paul Newman) since he was ten, was sure that he and Chris would set the world on fire. He really wanted this Kittens song to be a huge hit, so he and Chris decided to hang out in the studio with Randy, Elliott and the girls, ready to make any changes.

This change in practice didn't go unnoticed at a small label like Syco. "Came in the studio voluntarily, Blake?" Elliott asked him that first day.

"Just want to do my share," Blake answered, blandly, glad Chris hadn't arrived yet. "It's all about the record."

Elliott nodded slowly, as though Blake were a child, then turned back to his work. "The girls are coming in this afternoon. We're laying down the rhythm tracks now."

Randy Jackson had been a session and tour band member in his own right, so he preferred to sit in the room with the musicians and left it to Elliott to sit behind the board and make sure everything ran smoothly.

Chris came in just a few minutes later, handing a tea to Blake, and looked around the studio. "Gee, this is great," he said.

"Been in a studio before?" Elliott asked.

"Yeah, but just you know, those little storefront ones. I'll just sit over here and watch," he said, finding a large armchair in the corner.

Blake stayed put, sitting next to Elliott at the board, which he thought was probably best. Less temptation to do any inappropriate touching, or extended staring. He faced forward, watching Randy try a few different styles under their simple melody. And so it went for the morning, with he and Chris making occasional suggestions or changes. The musicians were pretty much done by lunchtime, and the four men sat in the booth eating a lunch of delivered sandwiches and awaiting the arrival of the three girl singers who made up the Kittens.

The Kittens had been the brainchild of Simon, who wanted a girl group with sexy but not bad girls, and took his cue from Playboy.  The three Kittens did look like Playmates in their costumes, except that Simon didn't share Hugh Hefner's fetish for blondes, so the girls were brunettes with long bouncy hair, creamy skin, long legs and decent, if not abundant, cleavage. The kind of girl that a fella could bring out to a night club on a Saturday night and impress the boys, but could still cook a pot roast to impress the boss at Sunday dinner.

Haley, as usual, was first to arrive; she was the most responsible and consistent of the Kittens. If it weren't for her cute figure and pretty face Blake thought she probably wouldn't even be performing; she didn't have that fire that he usually saw in singers. She had a nice little voice and she could fill out the ultra-sexy Kitten costumes, but she also had a nice fiance and came from a nice home and after this was all over Blake was pretty sure that she'd have a nice house in the suburbs with two cars and 2.5 children, and be perfectly happy about it.

"My goodness!" she said. "You'd think a girl could ride the IRT without getting pinched! Hello, Randy."

"Not when the girl looks like you, baby," Randy replied, hugging her, and Blake suddenly remembered why he steered clear of the studio. Not only was he no good at the fake showbiz bullshit chat, it made him feel queasy to hear it, and he had just eaten a salami and cream cheese on rye with extra potato salad on the side which he really didn't need to be tasting again.

Gina came in just behind her. She was a close friend of Blake's, one of the few connected to Syco who knew what kind of clubs he actually frequented and sometimes came along herself. Gina was a tough girl who balanced out Haley's nicey niceness. She had that fire, and Blake hoped she'd go far after the Kittens' run ended.

"So," she said, walking over to Chris as though no one else was in the room, "you're Chris. I'm Gina. I heard you wrote the lyrics to our new song."

Chris shook Gina's outstretched hand. "Yes, ma'am," Chris said. "But we both did the music and Blake has a good take on the vocal arrangement."

Gina kept hold of Chris, but turned to look at Blake, who stood off to the side. "Ain't he sweet? How can you stand it?"

"Gina," Blake warned, giving her his smallest scowl. He should never have told her about his stupid pointless crush.

"Call me Gina instead of ma'am," she said to Chris, "and we'll get along fine."

"I thought I was running late," Haley said. "Where's Kathy?"

"Being on time doesn't let you make an entrance," Gina said, sitting on a stool and lighting a cigarette. "And remember, she has a new name."

"Oh that's right," Haley said. "I keep forgetting. Kat."

"Someone say my name?" said the final Kitten as she walked through the door. Unlike the other girls, who were dressed comfortably in capri pants, ballet flats, and knit tops, their hair pulled into neat ponytails, Kat looked almost as though she were on stage. Her hair was loose and cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a slim a-line dress that had a low enough scoop to show off the shadow of her cleavage and a high enough hem to feature her long legs. "Oh dear, I'm not late, am I?"

"Not at all," Elliott said, jumping up to bring her in and close the door behind her, then steer her to his seat. "How could we start without you?"

Gina looked at Blake and rolled her eyes. Poor Elliott, he was so gone for this girl and she didn't seem to notice he was in the room half the time. Not that Kat was at all unkind, but she did like a new toy, and she didn't trust anyone who liked her singing as much or praised her as often as Elliott did. It was as though she'd got so used to Simon's bluntness that she didn't trust anything else. While Gina had a fire to perform, Kat had a killer instinct, and the ability to zero in on the most powerful person in the room. Sadly for Elliott, that was never him.

Sure enough, she turned to look at Chris. "You're new here," she said. "I'm Kat."

"I'm Chris. I'm writing with Blake."

Kat looked him up and down. "Well, pleased to meet you, I'm sure," she said, holding out her hand, which Chris shook gingerly, blushing.

Blake felt a sudden rush of jealousy, and then anger at himself. Chris didn't belong to him in any way, despite their going out at least once every weekend and for dinners several times during the week. Eventually, he'd find a nice girl and Blake would just have to get over himself. "Well, now that everyone is here, let's go work on these vocals. We've been thinking this song might suit Gina better to sing lead on, if that's okay, Kat."

"Of course," Kat said, not taking her eyes off Chris. "I don't need to sing lead all the time. Gina should have a turn."

Blake wondered if Kat was being so agreeable because she wanted to look good in front of Chris, but if that's what it took he was fine with it. "Great, let's go to the piano and get started."

"You're coming in too, aren't you, Chris?" Kat asked him.

"Of course," Chris said, moving forward, and Kat took his arm—which he hadn't exactly offered—and walked into the other room with him. Gina and Haley just snickered, and Blake would have too, in spite of his jealousy, but he couldn't help but notice Elliott was pushing the buttons to set the levels with a little more effort than was strictly necessary. Blake gave him a quick pat on the back, wishing he could tell Elliott just how much he empathized with his situation.

[He's a Rebel](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/He_s_a_Rebel/8453522)

Despite personality quirks, the girls were nothing if not professional—indeed, no one lasted long at Syco who wasn't a hard worker—and after a few run-throughs at the piano Randy agreed with Chris and Blake that Gina should take the lead on the song, though he wanted to lay down a demo of Kat singing the lead to placate Simon, who favored the girl. Haley didn't take much time to lay down her simple harmonies, then Kat sang her tracks and went back into the booth to sit in a chair next to Chris. As Gina wasn't used to singing the lead, she was a bit nervous, so Haley went into the room to give her some moral support while Blake gently coached her from the booth. Randy put himself out of Gina's field of vision, not speaking but making occasional hand signals to Blake.

Good thing he was so busy, as Blake really didn't need to be watching Kat flirting with Chris. Not that he could blame her; Chris would be a catch for anyone but landing a songwriting boyfriend was a dream for any singer. During their dinner break, though, it was hard to ignore, and even if Chris didn't seem entirely willing, Kat was determined. She sat on a couch right next to him, helping herself to some of his fried rice while he told her how different the food was in Chinatown.

"Really?" Kat said, batting her eyelashes and all. "I'd love to try some of that real Chinese food but I just wouldn't know where to go."

"Well," Chris said, "maybe a group of us should go down there sometime."

"I'd like that," she replied.

"What is she doing?" whispered Haley, who sat on the other side of Gina from Blake. "Honey, if he wants to take out a group that means _not you_."

Blake shook his head. Chris certainly seemed happy enough to humor Kat, but firm on not asking her out, which surprised Blake. Well, perhaps he didn't like forward girls, being a southern gentleman and all.

Gina shook her head, then said rather loudly, cutting through the general din, "So Chris, I have a question about this song."

Chris looked up quickly. "Anything you need to know, Gina. You're the singer."

Gina cocked her head. "It's about Blake, isn't it?"

Chris coughed, as though he'd swallowed his tea wrong. "Well, um, you know, I hadn't thought about it, but it certainly could be," he stammered. "I was thinking about the kind of boy I'd wanted to be when I was in high school when I wrote it. But I did write it after I met Blake, so."

"Why would it be about _Blake_?" Kat asked, irritation giving an edge to her voice.

Gina cleared her throat, then sang the first verse:__

> _See the way he walks down the street  
> Watch the way he shuffles his feet  
> My, he holds his head up high_

"Isn't that just how Blake walks around town?"

"I don't shuffle my feet," Blake protested, glaring at Gina.

Chris looked a bit pink, but then again, it was rather warm in the room with all of them and the Chinese food.

"You know, I think Gina's right," Haley said. "And the next part, too:"__

> _My baby's always the one  
> To try the things they've never done_

"That's more like it," Blake said.

"He certainly is a rebel," Kat added, not wanting to be left out. "How sweet, Chris, that you wrote something for your new friend and you didn't even know it! And how clever to make it into a romance so we could sing it!"

"Well, that backfired," Haley muttered.

Kat had turned on the couch so she faced Chris, almost sitting in his lap. "You have some matches, don't you?" she asked, a cigarette in her hand. "I'm fresh out."

"Oh Kat, I wish you'd eat more," Haley said.

"You know how annoyed the seamstress is that she has to keep altering your costumes," Gina added.

"Here, Kat," Elliott said. "There's more eggrolls, and I know you like them."

"Oh, Elliott, stop fussing over me," Kat said, dismissing him. "I couldn't eat another bite and I want a cigarette now." She slipped her hand into Chris's jacket pocket, pulling out a box of matches. "What a pretty box," she said.

Chris's eyes went wide. "Yeah, um, here, I'll light it for you," he said, quickly pulling the box out of her fingers.

But it didn't matter what Chris did then to obscure the name on the box; Blake would recognize that dark purple and gold edging of the Wrong Wray Bar anyplace. His head was spinning. Handsome Chris in a trashy gay bar like that? It couldn't have been an accident; the Wrong Wray was one of those former speakeasies that were half in a basement with a secret back entrance so the clientele could get away in the case of a raid.

"You okay?" Gina whispered to him. "You've stopped breathing."

Blake blinked. Chris had lit Kat's cigarette and put the box away in an inner jacket pocket. But he wasn't watching her as she prattled on about costumes with Haley; instead, his eyes were lowered, as if he didn't dare look anyone in the eye. No, that matchbox was no accident. Now he could really share everything with his new friend. Sure, his crush had just become more pathetic and would be harder to hide, but having a real pal to run around with would be worth that. "I'm not just okay," Blake replied. "I'm fantastic."

"You are so _weird_," Gina said.

Randy declared dinner break over shortly after that and Gina went back to working on her vocal, Haley and Randy joining her in the other room. The instant Kat excused herself to "toddle off to the powder room" Blake wandered over to Chris's corner, kneeling on the chair Kat had been sitting on and putting his hand on Chris's shoulder.

"You know, Chris," he said, low enough that Elliott couldn't hear, "if you want to go out Saturday night, I can show you to much classier places than the Wrong Wray. Let me guess, you got the name from a navy buddy?" He rubbed his hand along the back of Chris's neck.

Chris had gone completely scarlet, and looked like he might start shaking. "Um, yeah, I did."

Blake shook his head. "You're too good for that dive. You rate a much better class of fag than that. Actually, I'd kinda enjoy showing you off."

Chris looked up at Blake. "Showing me off? You mean … "

"Yep." Leaning into Chris's ear, so close his mouth almost touched it, he sang, softly:

> _We're a couple'a fags  
> To us, girls are such fun hags  
> But we prefer to neck with boys we see in the fashion mags._

Blake smiled, patting Chris on the shoulder, and then turned back to the work at hand, more energized than he'd felt all evening. "Okay, Gina," he said into the mike, "let's take it from the top. And if I can be any inspiration, you're welcome to sing it to me."

Gina replied with a rude gesture that got the whole crew laughing just as Kat returned to the room. "What happened? What did I miss?"

_So much_, Blake thought. _So very, very much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Kittens sing "He's a Rebel". Blake makes up his own lyrics to "We're a Couple'a Swells" which Fred Astaire and Judy Garland sang in Easter Parade.  
> There are lots of converted speakeasies in lower Manhattan; Chumley's is one of the best known. Yes, gay bars were still getting raided in 1962; more on that later.


	4. You've Come a Long Way, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris Richardson makes an interesting discovery.

_March 31, 1962_

Chris adjusted his tie for the millionth time since he'd got on the train in Astoria, and shifted nervously from foot to foot as he waited for Blake to buzz him upstairs. He'd needed Blake to draw him a map of the little corner of Bank street that he lived on, and even with that he didn't quite understand how west 4th street could ever cross west 12th street, but he'd found it, and he had wine, and he was going out of his mind because Blake was gay.

Blake was gay, and Chris had a crush on him, or maybe more than that, and now Blake's unattainability went from being an untouchable straight man who was also his writing partner to being an out-of-his-league gay man who was also his writing partner. He kept telling himself it was better to be able to be truthful.

Well, mostly truthful. Wild horses wouldn't drag out of him that yes, "He's a Rebel" was about Blake, had come to him that first night they went out when he stood and watched Blake walking up Broadway like he owned it.

"Yeah?" came Blake's voice through the scratchy speaker.

"It's Chris!" he shouted, hoping he didn't sound like too much of an idiot.

"Come on up!" Blake said, and the buzzer went off, allowing Chris to push through the doors into the hallway of the walk-up. Four flights—no wonder Blake had such a great ass.

Upstairs, Blake had left his door open. "Blake?" Chris asked.

A blond head popped from around the corner. "So I was thinking, I decided to make an Italian dinner, and you know it always splatters, so since it's just us let's eat in our undershirts and keep our shirts clean for the club."

"Sure," Chris said, setting the wine bottle on the small kitchen table and closing the door behind him. "Where should I put my jacket and tie and shirt?"

"In here," Blake called out.

Chris followed the sound of his voice into the bedroom. Blake was standing near the foot of his rather large bed in trousers, an undershirt, and bare feet. "Hi! Wow, you look fantastic. Not that it's so difficult for you." He held up a hanger. "Use this."

Chris knew there was no reason to feel nervous taking his shirt and tie off in front of Blake. It wasn't like he was going to be naked. But he couldn't help glancing over at Blake, at his strong arms and the muscles in his back. In a suit Blake often looked elfin, but in his undershirt he looked more like one of those tiny but powerful mountain cats that Chris had seen on Wild Kingdom once. Blake looked up, catching him staring. Thinking quickly, Chris asked, "You have a tattoo? Were you in the service, too?"

"Army," Blake said, nodding. "Got out almost two years ago, been here ever since."

"Where were you stationed?"

"Germany. Just like Elvis. Same time, too."

"So … "

"That's a story, actually. Let's go into the kitchen and I'll start dinner and tell you."

They walked back out and Blake handed Chris a corkscrew. Chris sat at the kitchen table opening the bottle as Blake lit a gas flame under a pot of water.

"Word got around that I'm a musician," Blake said, stirring the small pot of sauce, "so he wanted to meet me and we ended up in the canteen together a few nights just talking about music. I think he would rather have talked to you, actually; you have a lot more in common with him. Anyway, he was talking about all the people who worked for him and all the management and fans were still coming up to him and asking him for pictures and wow, his life was just _not_ his own." Blake threw a fat handful of spaghetti into the boiling water. "He couldn't write his own songs because he didn't really have time, and not everything he wanted to write was in the 'image' that the record company wanted to portray. He seemed to think they knew better than he did, but you know, I don't know that they really do. Have you seen those movies?"

"I liked _Blue Hawaii_." Chris handed Blake a glass of wine.

"Thanks. Yeah, but that was the only one. But you know probably better than anyone how hard it is for me to give up control. I thought, well, I can write songs, so I'll just write them for other people, and find places to sing sometimes so I don't miss it too much. Funny thing is, I enjoy singing a lot more now that I'm only doing it for myself. After all, I can sing anything I want, and still write popular songs and make money. It's a good life for me so far." He shrugged. "Besides, I know I can't run around telling everyone I'm a fag, but I don't want a sham girlfriend either."

"So you really don't miss it?" Chris asked.

"When I can sing with Melinda once a week in exchange for a song here or there and some arrangements that are more playtime than work?" A timer rang and he turned off the oven and reached into the broiler, pulling out a small metal pan. "Wow, I almost always burn the garlic bread." He turned and tumbled it into a napkin-lined basket on the table. "You must be a good luck charm or something."

"Or something," Chris said. "Can I help with anything else?"

"Well, there's a salad in the fridge that needs dressing," Blake said.

Chris found a large wooden bowl with matching fork and spoon sticking out and placed it on the table. "I thought I'd miss it a lot more than I do, I'll admit," Chris said, pouring dressing onto the pile of lettuce, onion, radish and tomato. "But it's fun to write songs for a lot of other people, because then you can pretend to be anyone."

"Like a girl with a rebel boyfriend?" Blake asked, grinning.

"Maybe," Chris replied, not looking up. "But the folk people, like this new guy Dylan, they have stories in their songs."

"They aren't products," Blake replied. He tested a bit of pasta. "The Kittens, they're like laundry soap. You look them over and if you like the packaging, you buy them. I didn't want to be a product, but that's because I'm stubborn and egotistical."

"You're not that bad," Chris protested.

"Maybe not anymore," said Blake, pulling out another strand of spaghetti. "Where's that strainer?"

"You're not going to use a tennis racket?" Chris asked, grinning.

"Friend, I don't play tennis." He poured out the pot into the sink, then dumped the pasta back into the pot and poured the sauce on top.

"How did you learn to cook like this?" Chris asked.

"When I told my mother I wanted to be a musician, she told me that cooking for yourself is cheaper and taught me all her recipes. And I have Italian godparents." He laid out the pasta into a platter on the table, and covered it with meatballs. "Dig in. You'll need a lot of food to absorb the booze I'll be pouring down your throat tonight."

Chris smiled back, trying to remember that this wasn't a date, wasn't a scene from their loving domestic life, but just two close friends getting ready to go out tomcatting together. That they were both looking for men was just a convenient bonus. It didn't mean they were meant for each other.

"Cheers, dear," Blake said, holding up his glass.

"Cheers," Chris said.

Blake's choice of nightclub, Cooper's, was a definite step up from the Wrong Wray in clientele, location and decor, even if it was, of necessity, small and well hidden along a side street. The walls were draped with black curtains and the tables were arranged like any small supper club. Only, some of those men didn't look like men, and some of those women didn't look like women. Blake led Chris to an out-of-the-way table along the side of the room. "I don't care for the floor shows here," Blake said. "Too campy. But the men are a good cross section. You can find any type you want here."

Chris nodded. He'd never been in so upscale a place, gay or not, and was glad that his gray suit was new and therefore still stylish. As soon as they'd sat down and ordered their drinks, friends of Blake's (and, Chris thought, some former flames) started coming over to the table. Chris felt on display in a way he wasn't used to as Blake not-so-subtly showed him off. Sure, he'd gotten plenty of attention at Wrong Wray but that felt different, certainly more mutual. Here, he didn't even have a chance to catch someone's eye; they were all just coming to them, or really to the magnet that was Blake. Not that Chris was surprised; in fact, he was somewhat relieved to know he wasn't the only one who found Blake irresistible. Besides, these men were funny, and fun, and most of them were in show business which gave everyone a common topic of conversation. He even flirted a little with some of them.

But then he'd look at Blake and the new man would pale in comparison. Chris scolded himself to stop being ridiculous; Blake was not interested in him. So what if, after the men walked away, Blake would lean over and mention something to Chris about them that would both make him laugh and put him off them? Blake thinking that Chris could do better wasn't the same as Blake trying to keep Chris to himself.

"Oh my god," Blake said.

"What?"

He turned to Chris. "So I meant to tell you this, only I forgot in all the excitement, but um, the thing I knew about Ryan Seacrest? Yeah, he's gay. And frequents this place. And is headed right for this table. Try not to look surprised. Pretend I told you already."

Chris blinked. "Um, okay?"

Ryan was wearing a dark green tweed suit with an olive green shirt and a green-gray tie, all of which brought out his green eyes. "Well, look who the Blake dragged in," he said with a broad smile. "I never would have known." He shook Chris's hand. "Welcome to the club."

"Do I get a secret decoder ring?" Chris joked, trying not to think about how long it took Ryan to let go of his hand.

"May I join you?" Ryan asked as he sat.

"Of course," Blake said, sitting back in his chair. "But lay off Chris."

Chris and Ryan looked over at Blake. Chris had rarely seen him quite so serious.

"What?" Ryan asked. "I hadn't even—"

"I know he's fresh meat and all," Blake said pleasantly. "And I know he's almost too handsome. But—"

"But he's yours so hands off?" Ryan asked.

"No," Blake said. "But he's an old-fashioned romantic who isn't interested in a quick fling."

"You mean he isn't like you."

"Hey, I know I'm a slut."

"Just checking. So are you calling me a slut? Because compared to you, darling …"

"No, not a slut, not at all. But Chris will want your heart, and you won't be able to give it to him."

Ryan scowled. "Why not?"

Blake leaned forward. "Because you've already given it to someone else."

Ryan just stared at Blake, wide-eyed, as though he'd been slapped, then collapsed back into his chair. "God, am I really that obvious?" he asked, and lit up a Camel.

"Only to the trained eye," Blake replied, softly. "Is it worth it? Being the other woman, I mean."

"Yes? No? I don't know. Sometimes, sometimes it is," he said. "But it isn't like I can do anything about it. Even if there were no Paula, it wouldn't change much. They don't have that kind of marriage."

_Oh_, Chris thought. _So it's Cowell._

"No," Blake was saying, "you can't do anything about who you fall in love with."

Chris looked over at Blake, wondering why he sounded so sad. Blake being romantically rejected was not a situation that could exist in Chris's universe; why would anyone not want Blake to fall in love with them?

"Does she know?" Blake continued.

Ryan looked up. "Yeah, actually, she does. But she was never in love with Simon; he was her producer, and she married him, and he took care of her while she was still singing, and he takes care of her now. She has her dogs and her friends and she decorates the houses he buys and now she's decorating other people's houses and she seems to like her life. And if he divorced her tomorrow, she'd still have that life. She thanked me once, actually. Said she didn't want him crawling all over her anyway."

"So Paula gets what she wants and Simon gets what he wants. What about you?"

"Me? Friend, I don't even know what I want." He gulped the rest of his drink. "But whatever it is, it isn't here."

"Why don't you call him?" Chris asked.

"Well, it's the weekend and we don't usually—"

"Just call him. Offer to make him dinner or something."

"That sounds pretty domestic." Ryan paused, playing with a matchbook. "But maybe, yeah."

"I bet he's just sitting there in that big apartment, working, thinking he's letting you have your fun," Blake added.

Ryan smiled a little. "Okay, you know, I _will_ call him. I'll, um, I'll see you later." He got up and all but sprinted to the back hall, where there was a pay phone.

"Hope you weren't shocked that I'm a slut," Blake said, smiling.

"Naw. I kinda had that figured."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I just thought you were a womanizer."

"Ah," Blake said. He drummed his fingers on the table.

"So, um, thanks for that, anyway," Chris said.

"Ryan really isn't a bad fellow," Blake replied.

"Just unavailable."

"Well, that, and he's pretty short."

"I kinda like my men short."

"Yeah?" Blake asked.

"Yeah, but not as scrawny," Chris answered, looking out over the dance floor.

"I see."

Chris looked at Blake, who was facing slightly away. His hair was aglow from the lights of the club, just like when Chris had watched him walking through Times Square. Inside and out, this one, he was just so beautiful. Chris sighed.

"What?" Blake asked turning toward him.

"I'm really going to regret this," Chris said, and before Blake could answer he leaned over and kissed him. He only meant to try a quick kiss but Blake wouldn't let him go, prolonging the kiss until they were breathless and had to pull apart.

"No," Blake answered. "If I have to I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never, ever regret that."

Chris was never sure how they got out of that club that night; the next thing he remembered was trying very hard not to kiss in the cab, which mostly led to giggling and inappropriate touching where the driver couldn't see them. Then up those four damn flights of stairs.

"If you're supposed to be such a slut, how did you get so many men up here?" Chris asked as they rounded the third flight.

"By the time I brought them home they wanted me so much that half the time they'd offer to carry me," Blake replied.

"Well the only place I'll carry you is over a threshold, I'll tell you that right now."

Blake turned. "You really are an old fashioned romantic, aren't you?"

"Hey," Chris said, "you're the one who said 'the rest of my life.'"

"I did, didn't I?" Blake unlocked his door, opened it. Seeing Chris paused on the landing, he said,"Get in here."

Odd how different a small apartment can look under new circumstances. He shut and locked the door behind him, as Blake walked further into the living room, turning on a lamp and taking off his loafers.

"I'd say get a drink, but I think we've had enough," he said, as he filed through the shelf of records. "But have a seat. Kick off your shoes."

Chris sat down on the end of the couch. He knew what was going to happen, but for the life of him he couldn't work out how.

Blake pulled out a record and looked up as he put it on the record player. "Don't worry, baby," he said. "Still the same Blake. Let me just do this." He put the needle on the record and then walked over to the couch, sitting on the cushion next to Chris. He leaned in, and they were kissing again, slow, like they had all the time in the world. Chris turned in Blake's arms, and they shifted, taking off their jackets and tossing them who-knows-where, with ties following, until Chris was lying sideways on the couch, back propped up against the arm, and Blake was kneeling, straddling his legs. Chris's hands slid down Blake's back, resting on his hips, then pulled Blake into his lap.

"God, I can feel you," Blake said, sitting up and shifting a little. He reached down to unbutton Chris's shirt.

Chris pulled back. "Did you really just put on _The Sound of Music_?" he asked, feeling Blake's back muscles rippling under his fingers.

"Well, Coltrane," Blake replied. "So what are _your_ favorite things?"

"What?" Chris asked.

"What do you like to do?" Blake asked again.

Chris sat up to pull off his shirt and undershirt. His glance went to the bedroom door.

"Hey," Blake said. "Don't worry about that. I know you're no innocent—"

Chris turned back. "Oh?"

"You think I haven't heard about the navy?" he asked, smiling. "But we can do whatever you want. Mind you, I'm not jacking off alone in my bathroom, and you aren't leaving until after breakfast—"

"Wasn't planning on it," Chris said, helping Blake out of his dress shirt.

"Good. So what do you like to do?" Blake asked.

"I never thought about it," Chris admitted. "People pretty much knew what they wanted me to do, and it's cool, so I did that."

"Let me guess. Big strong man, bending them over, how could they resist?"

"Sometimes they wanted it a little rough," he added. "But they didn't like me to talk too much."

"'I'm not a fag,'" Blake mimicked. "'He made me do it.' Don't get me wrong," Blake said, running his hands across Chris's bare chest and stomach, "You're big and, wow, you are strong, but when you fuck me, you won't be making me do a damn thing."

"And you?" Chris asked as Blake pulled off his undershirt. "I guess they all wanted in here," he said, thrusting at where Blake straddled his erection.

"The next one who sings 'Nature Boy' to me …"

Chris grimaced. "They didn't?" At Blake's nod he added, "Oh god, that is too awful. I don't mean to laugh, it's just, it's so _wrong_. 'I'm not a fag; he's a tiny magical creature. I had to fuck him.' It's disgusting."

"Not as disgusting as asking you not to talk." He leaned over and kissed Chris, who wrapped his arms around Blake and pulled him close. Blake shifted and their legs entwined. "I want you to talk to me. Lots."

"Okay. You know what I'd like?"

"Mmm?" Blake replied, sliding back to suck Chris's earlobe into his mouth.

"You know, all the fellas at school, they'd talk about sitting on a girl's sofa, or on her porch, trying to get to second or third base with her—"

Blake pulled back to look Chris in the eye. "Down the shirt, up the skirt. I remember that. You never did that?"

"Well, not, um, not with the person I _wanted_ to do it with."

"So you want me to be the girl you're trying to get fresh with?"

Chris grinned. "I thought you were a slut?"

Blake laughed, low in his throat. "Then what are you waiting for?" Blake asked, kissing him again.

Then it was just tongues, and chests rubbing, and hands wrapped around hard cocks they hadn't really seen yet, and moans, and through it all Coltrane kept blowing like a madman in the background. Later, in the bedroom, there were no strong silent types or nature boys, only Chris Richardson and Blake Lewis with an entire night in front of them.

The next morning, a new reality: Blake sleeping in the sun, cool white sheets around bare shoulders, peaceful weekend morning, and Chris leaning over to kiss him awake. Blake smiles, opens those golden brown eyes, murmurs, "Hi, Chris. Mmm, wanna fuck again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cooper's is named in honor not only of Gary Cooper (my GBF, P____, has a thing for him) but also for the excellent Philadelphia lesbian bar Hepburn's. The one thing in this chapter that couldn't have happened is Chris kissing Blake in the middle of a club. It was a violation of New York liquor laws to have "immoral" activity anywhere alcohol was being served, which gave the police the ability to raid gay clubs just for having people in drag. In fact, the Stonewall riots, which sparked the gay rights movement in 1969, were a reaction to a raid on the Stonewall, a gay bar in Greenwich Village; pride week in June is a celebration of the Stonewall riots. For more about what it was like, see George Chauncey's excellent [Gay New York](http://www.amazon.com/Gay-New-York-Culture-1890-1940/dp/0465026214/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/105-2562339-3514052?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1190928642&sr=8-1).


	5. Alive with Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blake Lewis falls into the tender trap.

The Blake Lewis Story  
soon to be a major motion picture  
Starring Paul Newman as Blake Lewis  
and  
George Peppard as Chris Richardson  
(consider Lewis and Richardson playing themselves, if not too old at that point)

Writer's note: All life stories should have a musical montage love scene. Certainly all love stories DO have a musical montage love scene, and as The Blake Lewis Story contains a Crucial Romance Plot, this scene should be considered vital to capturing the life of Blake Lewis and his transformation from Man About Town to Contentedly Committed—the same as any man, really.  
The song: "I'm Beginning to See the Light," written by Duke Ellington, Johnny Hodges, Don George and Harry James as performed by Bobby Darin for the purposes of this draft, but to be performed by Blake Lewis for the film.

\--BCL

Hit "[I'm Beginning to See the Light](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/I_m_Beginning_To_See_The_Light/2167283)" --

EXT. GREENWICH VILLAGE -- MORNING

We hear the HORN INTRO as CHRIS drives up to BLAKE's apartment in a red convertible sports car. He honks, and BLAKE walks out his door and hops into the car, and they drive away.

WIPE TO:

EXT. SARATOGA RACE TRACK -- AFTERNOON

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never cared much for moonlit skies_  


We see BLAKE and CHRIS at the front of the stands, cheering

_I never wink back at fireflies_

The horses race by

_But now that the stars are in your eyes_

BLAKE looks down at his ticket to see he won

_I'm beginning to see the light_

and CHRIS and BLAKE jump up and down

WIPE TO:

EXT. MIAMI BEACH -- AFTERNOON

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never went in for afterglow_  


We see a wide shot of the water, with several high-speed powerboats racing

_Or candlelight on the mistletoe_

BLAKE and CHRIS are in one of them, BLAKE at the helm

_But now when you turn the lamp down low_

Their boat overtakes all the other boats, coming in first.

_I'm beginning to see the light_

CHRIS cheers as BLAKE waves to the crowd.

* * *

 

"Blake, what is this?"  
"It says 'musical montage' right at the top, Chris."  
"But we don't have a convertible, and we've never been to Saratoga, or raced speedboats in Miami. We rarely leave the city."  
"That's what's in romantic musical montages, though."  
"Yeah, because they're about Cary Grant and a madcap heiress. Wait. You want to be a madcap heiress, don't you?"  
"And you don't want to be Cary Grant?"  
"Why did I ever think you were straight? Look, I think it would be more romantic if you just put in what we really did that year."  
"Chris, it's not that kind of movie."  
"I don't mean that. We did leave the apartment occasionally."  
"Not to do anything glamorous."  
"No, but we had a lot of fun. Just try it that way."

* * *

Hit "I'm Beginning to See the Light" --

INT. BLAKE'S APT. -- MORNING

We hear the HORN INTRO as BLAKE sits up in bed, yawning and rubbing his eyes. CHRIS sits up next to him, doing the same. They smile at each other, kiss, then pull the blankets back over their heads as they lay back down, out of the frame.

WIPE TO:

EXT. STATEN ISLAND FERRY -- MORNING

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never cared much for moonlit skies_  


CLOSE UP of BLAKE AND CHRIS eating bagels

_I never wink back at fireflies_

PULL BACK to reveal that they are outside

_But now that the stars are in your eyes_

on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry

_I'm beginning to see the light_

with the Statue of Liberty in front of them

WIPE TO:

INT. MUSEUM OF MODERN ART -- AFTERNOON

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never went in for afterglow_  


We see BLAKE and CHRIS standing in front of Picasso's "Ma Jolie"; REVERSE SHOT of BLAKE and CHRIS tilting their heads back and forth, looking at the painting

_Or candlelight on the mistletoe_

BLAKE and CHRIS look at Rene Magritte's "The False Mirror"; REVERSE SHOT of BLAKE opening his eye wide with a finger and CHRIS staring into it

_But now when you turn the lamp down low_

  
  
BLAKE and CHRIS stand before Jacob Lawrence's "The World War had caused a great shortage in Northern industry and also citizens of foreign countries were returning home"; REVERSE SHOT of CHRIS flexing his arm and BLAKE handling CHRIS'S bicep and nodding  
  


_I'm beginning to see the light_

We see BLAKE and CHRIS sitting on a bench in front of Mark Rothko's "Red and Orange". BLAKE leans over, puts his head on CHRIS'S shoulder

WIPE TO:

INT. CHINATOWN RESTAURANT -- EVENING

BOBBY DARIN  
_Used to ramble through the park_  


We see BLAKE and CHRIS sitting at a table for two. A waiter sets down a dish of rice and they dig in with chopsticks

_Shadow boxing in the dark_

The waiter sets down a platter of various Chinese vegetables in sauce and BLAKE and CHRIS dig in with chopsticks

_Then you came and caused a spark_

The waiter sets down a bowl of soup with dumplings and CHRIS and BLAKE dig in with Chinese soup spoons

_that's a four-alarm fire now_

The waiter sets down a platter with a whole fish on it. CHRIS and BLAKE look from the platter to each other, shrug, and attack it with their chopsticks

WIPE TO:

INT. CLUB CARAVAN -- NIGHT

BLAKE stands on the stage, singing

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never made love by lantern shine  
I never saw rainbows in my wine  
But now that your lips are burning mine_  


We see CHRIS sitting with MELINDA at a table up front

_I'm beginning to see the light_

CHRIS lifts his glass to BLAKE, winks

WIPE TO:

EXT. POLO GROUNDS -- DAY

The NY Mets are playing--and losing.

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never cared much for moonlit skies_  


We see BLAKE and CHRIS in the stands, BLAKE in a Los Angeles Angels cap, CHRIS in a Baltimore Orioles cap, both in Mets jerseys, cheering on their team

_I never wink back at fireflies_

Frank Thomas is in the batter's box.

_But now that the stars are in your eyes_

He swings--and it's a home run into the stands! CHRIS reaches up a gloved hand

_I'm beginning to see the light_

and catches the ball, with BLAKE cheering and jumping next to him

WIPE TO:

EXT. CENTRAL PARK -- AFTERNOON

CHRIS and BLAKE walk along a path. The trees show their autumn colors in the setting sun

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never went in for afterglow  
Or candlelight on the mistletoe_  


They see a large pile of fallen leaves. They give each other a look --

_But now when you turn the lamp down low_

start to run --

_I'm beginning to see the light_

and jump into the pile of leaves, laughing

WIPE TO:

EXT. ICE RINK at ROCKEFELLER CENTER -- DAY

BOBBY DARIN  
_Used to ramble through the park_  


We see BLAKE skating with the crowd

_Shadow boxing in the dark_

And an uncomfortable CHRIS clinging to the side wall

_Then you came and caused a spark_

BLAKE skates up to CHRIS, takes his arm to lead him away from the wall

_that's a four-alarm fire now_

CHRIS almost falls, but hangs onto BLAKE, and starts to skate, as BLAKE smiles at him proudly

WIPE TO:

INT. COOPER'S -- NIGHT

Cooper's is decorated for the Christmas season and full of men (and some women) in tuxedos and women (and some men) in evening gowns, dancing

BOBBY DARIN  
_I never made love by lantern shine_  


CHRIS and BLAKE, both in tuxes, are dancing together, CHRIS leading. They're laughing and have eyes only for each other

_I never saw rainbows in my wine  
But now that your lips are burning mine  
I'm beginning to see the light_

As the song ends, CHRIS twirls BLAKE out of his arms, then back in, then into a dip on the final beat

 

* * *

 

"Like that better, Chris?"  
"Yeah. It's like I'm falling in love with you all over again."  
"But the point is for the audience to see Blake falling in love with Chris."  
"You distract me. Also?"  
"Yes?"  
"Don't talk about us in the third person. It's creepy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this chapter: "I'm Beginning to See the Light" by Bobby Darin. For the montage Blake originally had in mind (and a damn fine comedy of remarriage), see _The Awful Truth_ (Leo McCarey, 1937). For a montage closer to what Blake actually did, see _Down with Love_ (Peyton Reed, 2003) which is also set in 1962. The Mets were a brand-new team in 1962 and played at the Giants' old field, the Polo Grounds, up in Harlem. Since no characters of mine would ever back the Yankees, it's a good thing I didn't set this story in 1959, as at the end of the 1957 season the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles and the Giants to San Francisco.


	6. It's What's Upfront That Counts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blake thinks Chris should say yes.

_December 21, 1962_

If you had asked Chris before he came to New York where the Syco Records Christmas party would be held, he would have said someplace glamorous, like an exclusive club or the Waldorf Astoria, strictly black tie.

Good thing he'd had his black tie Christmas party courtesy of Cooper's, because the Syco party was at lunchtime, in a tiny nightclub near the office. Well, at least there was an open bar and no thought of anyone going back to work that afternoon. Cowell was a cheapskate, definitely, but he wasn't cruel.

It was also tradition for the songwriters to sing a song at the party, usually a Syco song that they hadn't been involved with. Blake, predictably, had no time for it and referred to it as the "Syco Junior High Talent Show." But Chris had been thinking about what he might sing for a month and only finally decided on a song the day before. He didn't know why he was so nervous; maybe it was just singing someone else's song in front of them. He'd always rather sing his own. And the crowd wasn't just the crew from the New York office, either. All thirty of Syco's employees were in attendance; even the promotional men who spent most of their time on the road were in town for the party.

And, though no one talked about it, Ryan Seacrest was also there. He'd risen to national prominence as a DJ and host in the vacuum caused by the payola scandal, which made his open "friendship" with record label owner Cowell doubly necessary to _keep_ open, even though there were aspects that had to stay private. It was a tricky balancing act, and now that they were friends Chris could see the physical toll it took on Ryan, who seemed to live on coffee, Camels, and knishes. He worked punishing hours, he was engaging and popular with the kids, and his local afternoon"record hop" television show had just been picked up by the young ABC network. Dick Clark was definitely looking over his shoulder at Ryan.

Cowell was standing at the head table, looking every inch the proud papa. "I hope everyone enjoyed this wonderful lunch. Please join me in thanking our own Cat Deeley, the Voice of Syco, for her work in planning our party today."

Cat laughed as they all applauded. Chris wasn't sure who had planted the item in the gossip columns that she was having an affair with Cowell, but he was sure Ryan was glad for the cover. As for Cat, Chris had seen her at Cooper's enough times to know that she didn't mind the cover, either.

"The year-end issue of Billboard came out today," Cowell continued, referring to the recording industry bible that published the song charts. "And I have here the top twenty songs of the year 1962, all of which were number ones in their own right. But before I talk about them, I want to give a special mention to a song that peaked at number three, 'I Know You Don't Love Me No More', performed by Kiki and written by Brandon Rogers and Tamyra Gray, because it was the first song our own Elliott Yamin produced by himself. Congratulations, Elliott!"

As everyone applauded, Elliott waved, blushing a bit.

"At number twenty, 'Don't Break the Heart that Loves You', performed by Stephanie Edwards and written by Brandon Rogers and Tamyra Gray." He paused as everyone applauded. "At number nineteen, 'The LocoMotion', performed by young Jordin Sparks and written by Kelly Clarkson and Chris Daughtry. This is a song with a lesson to us all: even your babysitter might be a recording star."

Chris Sligh spoke up. "But our babysitter is a sixty-year-old Russian woman."

"There's a market for that," Cowell shot back. "Right, at number thirteen, 'Breaking Up Is Hard to Do', performed by Ace Young and written by Phil Stacey and Chris Sligh, who would apparently rather be a comedian."

"He's a better comedian than a piano player," Phil said, getting the crowd laughing again.

"And at number twelve, the highest charting record for Syco this year, 'He's a Rebel', performed by the Kittens, and written by Chris Richardson and Blake Lewis, a new team that I put together myself!"

Chris leaned over to Blake and muttered through his smile, "He's going to take credit for everything we ever do, isn't he?"

"He'd better not," Blake whispered back. "The sex we had last night had nothing to do with him."

Chris coughed, hoping that the coworkers looking at him would chalk his blush up to the attention and not his secret boyfriend.

"I want to thank everyone in this room for an incredibly successful 1962. I know that we have the right people in place to make 1963 even better! That includes not only our performers and songwriters, Taylor Hicks and our A&amp;R staff, producer Randy Jackson and his team of engineers and session musicians, Bucky Covington and the entire group who put together our tours, and our support teams here in New York, but also our promotional men out in the field who are finding new legal ways to add our songs to more playlists every week!"

Chris and his fellow Brill Building-ers cheered loudly. No matter how great a song was, if it didn't get on the radio, didn't find its way onto the tightly formatted pop playlists controlled by the radio station programmers, no one would hear it and, more importantly, no one would buy it.

"And now, to continue our tradition, we will have some performances over dessert." Cowell turned to the stage behind him, where Randy and the studio musicians had set up. "Randy, are you ready? Right, well, up first is Kelly Clarkson!"

After Kelly sang a soulful version of "Don't Break the Heart that Loves You", her husband answered with "I Know You Don't Love Me No More." Chris leaned over to Blake and asked, "Is it weird that the married couple team are singing break-up songs to each other?"

Blake shrugged, making a little grimace. "Maybe?"

Tamyra was next, and she called Elliott and Blake up onto the stage with her to sing back up as she sang "The Locomotion." She made her usually husky voice sound childlike, poking good-natured fun at the seventeen-year-old Jordin, while Elliott and Blake did their best impressions of female backup singers, dancing away behind Tamyra. They were both so over-the-top that Chris hoped no one would notice that Blake could dance like a girl a little _too_ well.

Then it was Blake and Chris's turn to feel the sting of parody. As Phil and Brandon looked on, Sligh announced, "Now, I know there's a rumor that our Chris Richardson wrote this song about his own songwriting partner, Blake Lewis. I understand, as all of my love songs are actually written with Phil in mind." Sligh paused as the crowd laughed. "And I'm sure we can prove that Blake started that rumor, because he thinks that all love songs have been inspired by his amazing personality." There was more laughter as Sligh ducked a napkin thrown at his head by Blake. "But I believe that the song was really written about Cowell, because Chris is just that much of a suck up!" With that, the band kicked in, and Phil, Brandon and Sligh did their best impression of the sexy Kittens. The crowd ate it up, rewarding them with long applause, and Chris could hear Gina and Haley's cheering loudly.

[Breaking Up Is Hard to Do](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/Breaking_Up_Is_Hard_To_Do_Slow_Version_/1596222)

Chris cursed agreeing to close the show. He stood up and went to the piano. "I'm not sure I can follow that one up, since it's just me and the piano," Chris said, vamping as the studio band set down their instruments. "But Bucky Covington produced this show, and he decided the song order so we'll just have to trust his expertise, right?" He smiled as the crowd clapped for the popular Covington. "In the pitch meeting when we all first heard this song from Phil and Sligh, it wasn't nearly as bouncy as the single. That change was all Randy and clearly he was absolutely right." The crowd applauded again, and Chris smiled. "But I wanted to give you all a sense of what it sounded like the first time I heard it, though this might be even slower." He looked out over the crowd, catching Blake's eye, who made a "hurry-up" motion with his hands. He was right; Chris was stalling. He started playing the opening chords, then sang:

> _You tell me that you're leaving  
> I can't believe it's true  
> Girl, there's just no living without you.  
> Don't take your love away from me …_

When he got up on the stage at Club Caravan he nearly always sang to Blake, at least in his head. But he was avoiding Blake's gaze now, performing to the crowd as a whole, though to be honest it was Ryan Seacrest and his situation that he had in mind. He finished the song, and the room was silent. For a moment, he worried that he'd completely bombed.

And then the entire room exploded into applause. Sligh and Phil, followed quickly by Blake, led a standing ovation. Even Cowell seemed impressed, smiling at Chris around his ever-present Merit menthol. Chris stood up and bowed to the crowd, feeling oddly exposed; there wasn't even a band he could point to.

Later, when everyone was drinking and mingling, Cowell approached him, Taylor Hicks just behind him. "Mr. Richardson, how did you hide from me for so long?" he asked.

"I've been right here, sir," Chris replied. "You've heard me sing a song almost every week since February."

Cowell waved his hand dismissively. "Why didn't you come to us as an artist?" he asked.

"Um, well, I really think of myself as a songwriter, sir," he replied. He looked to Blake for support, but his boyfriend was silent, sipping at his drink, his expression frustratingly unreadable.

"I think we could make a big hit with you," Cowell said.

"The girls will love your looks," Hicks added.

"And who better to sing the songs that you and Blake are writing?" Cowell added.

"Well—" Chris began.

"No," Cowell interrupted. "Think about it over the holiday. Talk to your family and friends. You can give me your decision when we're back in the office after the New Year." He extended his hand.

"All right, sir," Chris said as he shook Cowell's hand. "I'll think on it."

"It's a great opportunity," Hicks said.

Cowell didn't even turn around. "I believe he _knows_ that, Mr. Hicks," Cowell said.

"Of course, of course he does," Hicks replied, and the two walked away.

Chris turned to Blake. "Well," he said, "how do I say no and keep my job?"

"Why would you?" Blake replied. "I think you should do it." He took Chris's empty glass. "I'll get us refills."

Chris watched Blake walk away, more confused than ever.

* * *

_December 24, 1962_

Chris had written to his mother some weeks earlier, telling her that it was very busy in New York and he wouldn't be able to get away for Christmas, but not to worry because he'd be spending it with his friend Blake and some other friends. This wasn't entirely true, of course; Cowell closed down Syco for two weeks at the Christmas holiday, and Chris didn't plan on seeing many people other than Blake during their time off. They'd been dating for nine months now, and were talking about sharing a little two-bedroom in Blake's neighborhood since Chris slept over most nights anyway. Maybe it was the enforced secrecy, but it didn't feel to Chris like they had really been together that long, or really, that he'd held the attentions of the mercurial Blake for nearly a year. But he'd stopped wondering after the first week whether he'd be just another notch on Blake's bedpost—they had too much of a connection for that. And Blake's friends were unanimous that he had never behaved with anyone the way he did with Chris.

They'd found trees for sale around the corner from St. Vincent's Hospital and dragged a small one up the four flights to Blake's flat, decorating it with paper ribbons cut out of discarded bits of sheet music. Blake, surprisingly to Chris, was a complete Christmas sap, and had been playing nothing but Christmas records since Thanksgiving. He'd insisted on attending the Radio City Christmas show and seeing the window displays of every single department store in Manhattan. They'd seen the Nutcracker at the City Ballet, A Christmas Carol on Broadway, a special program of seasonal music at the Metropolitan Opera House, and a night of spirituals at Melinda's church uptown. And on Christmas day, thanks to a tip from Elliott, they were going to go see a movie and dine in Chinatown.

But tonight, Christmas Eve, they had brought home a traditional English holiday meal from a restaurant around the corner and sat in front of the tree eating roast beef and Yorkshire puddings in the flickering light.

"This is surprisingly romantic," Chris said.

"Surprisingly? Bite your tongue," Blake replied. "What could be more romantic, what says 'young loving couple' more than eating your holiday dinner in front of a fire?"

"Blake, that fire isn't real. It's a black and white film of a yule log on channel 11."

"Details!"

Chris chuckled. "So, um, you think I should be an artist?" he asked. They hadn't talked about it since the office party, but the offer had loomed large in Chris's thoughts all week, and he wanted to clear the air so he could focus on just being with Blake.

"You love performing," Blake said, not looking up.

"So do you."

"Yes, but I'm unconventional, and you're, well, not."

"How conventional can I be," Chris asked, "when I fuck a man nearly every night?"

"Okay, so not conventional," Blake said. "But I just—I don't want you to use my reasons to turn this down. We're not the same. It could be good for you."

"I suppose. I'd just never thought about it."

"Why not?"

Chris reached for more peas, trying to collect his thoughts. "When I was growing up I was always sneaking into the blues joints on the Negro side of town. The performers were so exciting, so charismatic! You just couldn't stop watching them. I mean, you've seen Melinda and Kiki. Even the Kittens are like that. And so are you, Blake. But I'm not; I don't have all that pizazz. And I wasn't, I mean, before I went into the Navy I was sort of a shy, chunky kid with big glasses hiding behind a piano."

"And since you left the Navy you're a friendly person that people see and immediately want to know, and that's what a pop star should be. Plus you're movie-star handsome."

"Blake, you're fucking me. You're obligated to say that."

"That doesn't mean it isn't true." Blake put his fork down. "Look, a hack like Hicks wouldn't be all over you if he didn't smell money, and neither would a pro like Cowell. They don't take risks unless they've been very carefully calculated. Let them worry about selling you. Do you think you'd like to make a record?"

Chris looked out the window at the snow falling on the roof of a nearby apartment building. "Can I sing one of our songs?"

"You think I'd let you sing someone else's?" Blake asked.

Chris smiled. "All right then. Yeah, yeah, I'll do it. Let's do it."

"Good," Blake said, and raised his glass, which Chris duly clinked with his own. After a moment, Blake said, "Whatever happens, I love you."

Chris looked up. "Wow."

"What? That isn't the first time I've said that."

"Yeah, but you've only said it at night, in bed, usually after we've fucked. You've never said it in the living room."

"Oh. Does it matter?"

Chris shrugged. "Maybe a little."

Blake shook his head. "You're a girl, you know that?"

"Excuse me," Chris said, "but I'm not the one who slathers himself with night cream."

"Everyone should care about their complexion," Blake said.

"If you say so," Chris said. "So, after dinner, can we make a snowman in the little park across the street?"

"This snow thing is never going to get old for you, is it?" Blake asked.

"'Fraid not."

Blake sighed. "Fine, as long as we take a bath to warm up after."

"There's cocoa in the cupboard," Chris said, smiling.

"And brandy," Blake added.

"Sounds good," Chris said. "But no Santa until tomorrow."

"That Santa, he only gives you presents when you've been good," Blake said. "But I'll give you a present for being _bad_."

"Ho ho ho," Chris replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jordin's single is "The Locomotion" by Little Eva, and Ace's single is "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do" by Neil Sedaka.  
> The payola scandal of the late 50s ruined the careers of many early rock DJs (though not Dick Clark, who turned State's evidence) because they had been accepting payment from record companies in exchange for playing their songs. (This happened again in the late 90s.) The story of Jordin as Kelly and Daughtry's babysitter is taken from the true story of Little Eva, who was the babysitter of Carole King and Gerry Goffey. I'll talk more about Neil Sedaka later, but he was a songwriter and recording artist in the Brill Building in the 60s, and rerecorded his own ballad version of "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do" in the 70s, when it was a hit all over again. All of the songs and chart positions in this chapter are real. While I adore Channel 11's yule log, Chris and Blake wouldn't have been watching it, as it didn't start until 1966. As for the film, they probably saw _Lawrence of Arabia_.


	7. We'd Rather Fight Than Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris makes up his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [](http://ali-wildgoose.livejournal.com/profile)[**ali_wildgoose**](http://ali-wildgoose.livejournal.com/) for her work on the photo in this chapter.

_February 19, 1963_

One month. One year.

It had been one year since he'd stumbled into work after staying far too late at a tea dance at Cooper's, one year since he'd stopped thinking of himself as a lone wolf in his work life and his personal life. One year since he'd met Chris Richardson.

And it had been one month since Chris, after saying yes to Cowell's offer, had been swept up in a whirlwind of image-making masterminded by Taylor Hicks. The new suit was sharp, and the new hair was good, as Chris hadn't really found a style since he'd grown out his navy crew cut, but Blake really didn't think that Chris needed training on how to move on stage. Chris already knew the best way to move every single muscle of his body; Blake had observed this first hand. But what Cowell wanted, Cowell got, and that meant lessons, lessons, lessons.

Which left Blake alone in their little office, sitting at the piano, trying to figure out what was wrong with this song and trying not to think, _Chris would know_. He would, but Blake couldn't ask him. If he hadn't been all but living with Chris he would rarely see him; Blake didn't know when Cowell thought they were writing these songs for Chris's record, unless of course he knew, which he might; it wasn't like he could really object. After all, nearly everyone at Syco knew about Ace, too. At least Blake could see Chris in the studio, but arranging their songs for other artists was left to Blake as Chris ran from place to place. Thing was, Chris seemed really happy and excited, and it made Blake happy and excited just to see him being the center of attention that he always should have been.

He looked around the room for inspiration. He'd never bothered to decorate the place in the year and a half he'd been there before Chris came, because he had the visuals in his _head_, man, and the music came out of the _universe_. But Chris felt that having pictures of the kind of people who listened to their songs, and the kind of things they did while listening to them, would keep Blake in the right mind-set. So they'd torn up a bunch of magazines and pinned pictures all over the walls. There were a lot of Pepsi ads because they seemed to always have teens in them, doing teen things like picnicking at the beach or hanging out in a ski lodge or cheering at a football game, none of which were things Blake himself had ever done. Well, before he met Chris. It was like after that first night a precedent had been set and they were doing all the things they didn't get to do in high school. They even drove down to Philadelphia for the Army/Navy game, sitting as close to the middle as they could, cheering against each other. Blake was glad that Navy won, though, because it pleased Chris so much.

Blake glanced at his watch. Well, fixing the song would have to wait until after the pitch meeting. Even though Chris wasn't really a new artist, and even though it had been agreed that he would be singing almost entirely songs he and Blake had written, Hicks had insisted on pitching him.

The new artist pitches were the mirror of the usual weekly songwriting pitches. The songwriting teams were the pitchees, along with Randy's production team, while Hicks, or one of his A&amp;R guys, would introduce the artist. They'd talk about the artist's image, have them sing something familiar, give the teams an idea of what kind of songs would work with their voice and presentation. Cowell would often discuss their relative priority within Syco's stable of artists, which Blake always thought was a little harsh to do right in front of them, but that was the business, and that was Cowell, and at least you knew that once you'd survived Cowell you could survive anything.

Blake slipped his jacket back on and walked out into the hallway, where his ankles were promptly entangled in fur and leather.

"What? Oh, Mrs. Cowell, how nice to see you," Blake said, trying to extricate himself from her notoriously excitable and very tiny dogs, who were currently running in between his legs.

"Blake, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Paula?" she said, grabbing futilely at the dogs. "Angel! Muffin! Tam-tam! Be good for mommy! Oh, Blake, could you just take two of them?"

"Of course," Blake said, scooping up what he assumed was Tam-tam, who was wearing a tiny plaid jacket, and Angel, who was all in white. "What brings you to the office, Mrs., um, Paula?"

"For the pitch meeting. Didn't Chris tell you? I've been helping with his wardrobe. You know Simon; he can barely dress himself. He only cares about what girls wear."

This was awkward. "No, he didn't, but the suit and the haircut are super. You're doing a great job; I'm sure he appreciates it."

"Well, you're the best judge of Chris's looks, so that's quite a compliment!"

"I, um …"

"Oh come on," Paula said, slapping Blake on the shoulder. "I know it when I see it. Look who I'm married to. I'm like Judy Garland. Not as good a singer but I like to think I was a better dancer."

"Um, yeah. You were definitely a better dancer." Blake wasn't really sure how to say, "Well, I see you have discovered that I am gay and want to talk to me about your gay husband and I'm flattered but this might not be the place," but luckily they had reached the pitch room.

"Hello, Ryan!" Paula sang out, opening her arms and dropping Muffin on the floor.

"Paula, hello darling," Ryan said, hugging her.

Blake put the other dogs down and quickly went to his usual seat. Watching Paula and Ryan close up was just too weird. And anyway, why was Ryan at the pitch meeting?

"So, your boy is crossing over to the other side," Daughtry said. "How you feeling about that?"

"I miss him a lot. Haven't seen much of him lately."

"See?" Daughtry answered.

"I mean, um, I'm really happy for him. He's so excited," Blake answered.

"See?" Kelly said.

Blake blinked, and turned to his left, leaning over Chris's empty chair next to Brandon. "Wow," he whispered.

"No doubt," Brandon replied.

Then Cowell came into the room, with Hicks and Chris just behind him. "Thank you, everyone, for attending. Let's just get started. I know you all are familiar with Mr. Richardson as a songwriter but Mr. Hicks felt strongly that he wanted to pitch him to you as an artist, and get your take on what we've done so far. Mr. Hicks."

It seemed odd, to Blake, to see Chris up at the front of the room in the artist's chair, rather than his usual place.

Taylor Hicks stood at the front of the room. "The point of this pitch is to get us thinking about Chris as an artist, and the best way to promote and manage him within Syco. Some of these things will be familiar but I want us all to try not to think of Chris the songwriter we all know, okay?" After the usual lack of response, Hicks went on. "Great. Okay, our new artist today is Chris Richardson. He's 23, from Virginia, and just got out of the Navy a year ago, so we're going with an all-American feel on this, particularly as he played football back in high school. So, boy next door with a bit of a romantic angle, not only because he and Blake tend to write love songs, but also because of this."

Hicks walked over to a nearby easel, and turned around the poster board that was propped on it. On the other side was a black and white close-up portrait of Chris, staring straight at the camera, looking friendly but not smiling.

Blake tilted his head. He could hear the rest of the room reacting to the picture, but he wasn't surprised. Unlike them, he'd seen how Chris's green eyes became almost transparent in a black and white photograph, because he'd been taking pictures of Chris almost since the first night they kissed. He knew that while Chris's smile was like sunshine, and came out as frequently, that when he wasn't grinning he was almost startlingly handsome. He'd even had the idea of using one of the pictures he'd taken, or taking some new ones, thinking that Chris would be more relaxed with him, but once he looked at them with a stranger's eye, he realized he couldn't. Chris was such an open book that in every photo his eyes shone with love—sweet and affectionate in some, hot and passionate in others, but always romantic love. It wasn't even that he and Chris didn't need everyone to know about their relationship, but the photos were far too personal to slap on the sleeve of a 45.

Instead, Blake looked at Chris. Chris was still sitting in a chair next to Cowell, looking down at the table, his cheeks flushed pink. _Look at me_, Blake thought. _Look at me and you'll be all right_. And as if Chris actually heard him, he looked right at Blake, smiling just a bit. Blake winked at him, and that smile grew wider, and Chris even shrugged slightly.

"You can see," Hicks was saying, "that this is a man any girl would want to bring home to her parents. While Ace Young is the sensitive boy that a girl wants to take care of, Chris Richardson is the man who would promise to take care of her."

Blake had always hated this part of the business, and he'd never had much affection for Hicks even though the man had a good ear for talent and an great head for marketing. But hearing his own lover being packaged for sale made him feel sick. He was glad he'd been too nervous to eat the sandwich he'd ordered for lunch, or he might not have been able to keep it down.

"So we're going to have the press packages playing up his physical size all as part of that image of taking care of the girl. The songs that he and Blake have been writing are romantic but strong. Even though he's singing, he's still a man of few words. And for the tour, we'll send him out with the Kittens, and have him be taking care of them, in Haley's case, of course, on behalf of her fiance. But we are working on the right girl to link him to romantically at the start—"

"What?" Chris asked. "A sham girlfriend?"

"No one you don't know," Hicks said. "Probably Kat, or Gina, actually, would be perfect. The man strong enough to tame her rebel heart. That would go over real well."

Chris looked over to Blake, who sat up in his chair.

"Cowell? You didn't say anything about this," Chris said.

He shrugged. "Does it really matter? Don't you want us to make you a star?"

"Of course it matters," Chris replied. "Ace doesn't have a sham girlfriend."

"Well, now Ace has a very different image," Hicks replied. "He's more of a puppy—"

"I know I can't talk about who I'm really dating," Chris interrupted. "I'm not an idiot. But I'm not pretending to date Gina."

"I will remind you, Richardson," Cowell said, "that you signed a contract."

"Nowhere in that contract did it say I'd have to lie."

"We know how to make you big," Cowell said. "I thought you had what it takes."

"Let him go, Simon," Paula said.

All eyes turned to her. Blake, even though he'd walked her in, had forgotten she was in the room.

"What did you say?" Cowell asked her.

Paula turned her head, looking from Chris, to Blake, to Ryan, who looked like he wanted the floor to open and swallow him up. "Just let him go," she repeated.

Cowell stared at her for a long moment, the rest of the room looking at him. He rubbed his hands over his face, sighed, and then brushed Chris away with a wave of his hand. Chris stood up and walked out of the room.

Blake got up to follow him, not really caring how it looked, though on his way out he glanced back to see that Ryan had pushed back from the table, his head down between his outstretched hands. Paula looked up from rubbing his back to give Blake a sort of half-smile, and tipped her head in the direction Chris had gone.

When Blake reached their office, the door was open and Chris was just sitting at the piano, playing not much of anything, as he did when he was thinking. He was staring at the pictures on the wall. "Well, you were right after all."

Blake dropped down next to him on the bench, shutting the door behind him. Whatever Chris had to say, the world didn't need to hear it. "I was right for me, but I didn't want to be right for you."

Chris looked at Blake. "Maybe I didn't want it enough."

"Maybe you want something else more. That's the thing, with the fame, you have to want it more than anything else."

"And if you don't?"

"Then you're Melinda, or me, or even Haley. You can get your music out there and you can find ways to perform without being part of the machine. You know that. But I just, I wanted you to be the one to say no."

"Well, I'm saying no."

"Okay." Blake smiled a little.

Chris looked around the room. "Why does it smell like salami?"

Blake stood up enough to root around the papers on the top of the piano. "Because I didn't eat my lunch," he said, retrieving the unopened sandwich. "Want some?"

"Is there anything to drink in here?"

Blake pointed at the chair. "There's still some soda in the corner."

Chris leaned over, first pulling up a styrofoam cup. "How old is this tea? Jesus, Blake, it's got mold on top." Chris shook his head and threw it in the trash, then pulled up two cans of Pepsi, handing one to Blake. He took the offered half sandwich, peering at it to see Blake's usual salami with cream cheese and olive spread on rye, and took a bite. "Are you relieved?"

Blake shrugged. "To be honest? Not really. You would have been great. If you had loved it? If it made you happy? I would have been happy just playing piano for you and writing songs and watching you up there. And, you know, keeping the vultures at bay."

Chris smiled. "And they were trying to sell _me_ as the protector."

"I told you Hicks is a hack," Blake replied. There was a tentative knock at the door, and Blake answered, "Who is it?"

"It's Ryan."

Blake looked at Chris, who nodded, and he reached over to open the door, then slid past Chris to sit in the extra chair.

"Not much room," Ryan said, looking around.

"Sit here," Chris said, patting the bench. "You'll fit; your ass is smaller than Blake's."

"Hey!" Blake protested.

"Not by much," Ryan said, sitting down and closing the door behind him.

"By a lot, actually," Blake said. "You need this sandwich more than we do."

"Your eyes are starting to sink back into your head, man," Chris said. "Not a good look for TV."

"I just need some time off," he replied. "But I didn't come to talk about me. I, um, I have this house, you know, at Fire Island Pines? No one's really out there this time of year, so it's very restful. I sometimes go out just to get my head together. I thought, you know, while you're trying to decide what to do next, well, I wanted to offer it to you."

Chris looked at Blake, who nodded. "Thanks, Ryan. It might be good to get away for a little bit. But seriously, you sure you don't need it more than we do?"

Ryan waved his hand. "I'll be fine. I have some time off coming this spring. Things have just—Simon went home to London for the holiday and he's been in a funny mood since he's been back. Everything's just a little more difficult right now."

"No offense, friend," Chris said, "but you didn't look that great even before then."

Ryan just shrugged, and then there was another knock on the door.

"Who is it?" Blake asked.

"Simon Cowell."

Ryan reached over and opened the door; if Cowell was surprised to see Ryan in the room, he didn't show it. He slid around the door, closing it behind him and leaning against it, which was the only place in the room to stand.

"Sir, I am sorry," Chris said. "I know that a lot of people put a lot of work into this —"

"No more than you did," Cowell replied. "And I apologize, too. I think … I may have pushed a bit too hard, for reasons of my own." He paused for a minute. "It smells like salami in here. Anyway, what I came to say was, Richardson, we'll release you from the contract you signed last month, no penalties, as though it was never signed. But that means that as of today, you don't have a contract here as a songwriter, since we'd put both contracts into one. Lewis does; his won't expire until the end of April. Just take the rest of the week and let me know on Monday what you'd like to do, and we'll work it out with the lawyers."

"Thanks, Mr. Cowell. I really appreciate that," Chris said.

"Look, you two have made a lot of money for this company. I don't want to end in a bad way." He stopped and looked down at Ryan, as if noticing him for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

"Offering them the use of the beach house," Ryan said.

"I thought you were going to stay there over your holiday in March," Cowell said.

"No. I need to get away, really get away, and I have two weeks."

"So where will you go?"

"I don't know. Atlanta, see the folks for a bit. Maybe Europe; I've never been there." He ran a finger along a groove in the piano. "I don't suppose you could—"

"Ryan, you _know_—"

"Yeah, didn't think so." Ryan sighed, and looked at his watch. "I need to get to the studio. I'll see all of you later. Chris, Blake, just call me and I'll get you the extra keys." He stood, looking at Simon, who was still leaning against the door. "Um, Simon? The door?"

Something like an emotion suddenly passed across Simon's face. "You do know this will all be over very soon, right?" he asked.

"What are you talking about?" Ryan asked.

"You heard those songs, Ryan. Oh, never mind." He opened the door and walked Ryan into the hall. "Do you need a car?"

"Simon, it's fifteen blocks up Broadway. I'd rather walk anyway." Ryan waved at Chris and Blake and then walked away. Cowell looked after him, then turned on his heel and walked to his office.

Chris and Blake stared after them, then Chris turned to Blake. "I'm so glad I'm in love with you," he said.

Blake nodded, his eyes still wide. "Me too, man. Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the long tradition of the studio or label-created girlfriend. See Rock Hudson or Tab Hunter for what was being done for them around the same time. As for what has Simon so freaked, I think many of you can guess …


	8. So Round So Firm So Fully Packed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blake makes up his mind.

_May 1, 1963_

In the end, Chris signed an extention to stay at Syco until the end of Blake's contract, which gave them time to polish up all the songs they'd started for Chris's record and get them into the hands of other artists. Of course many of them went to Ace Young, but a few ended up with the Kittens, and one was being used to launch a young kid with a funny name who was even more of a teen dream than Ace. Cowell was testing a lot of stage names, but "Sunny Mack" was the one that was sticking. Hicks thought he could use the songs meant for Chris to "age up" Ace's appeal and then have the kid take over in the teeny-bop slot, and Chris and Blake hoped he could pull it off, for Ace's sake.

Surprising everyone who knew their real relationship, especially Ryan, Cowell took Ryan with him to London for two weeks in March. He said he was going on a scouting trip, though he didn't bring any of the Syco A&amp;R men with him. Apparently he'd heard some new British sound on the radio when he was home over Christmas and wanted to see the bands for himself. Ryan made his own connections with the labels overseas, to ensure that he would get the first shipments of new songs, and taped interviews with some of the new bands even though they hadn't broken in America yet. Cowell, meanwhile, secured the US rights to several of them, though Hicks had made it known around the office, in Cowell's absence, that he didn't think much would come of any of them. Ryan had returned 10 pounds heavier, worlds happier, and had confided to Chris that not only had he and Cowell spent a "secret weekend" in Paris, but he'd also met Mama Cowell.

So Chris and Blake didn't actually get out to the beach house Ryan had offered until May. Ryan had a piano, so they just brought a guitar and some clothes, plus a very heavy bag that Chris was being mysterious about, and one reel-to-reel tape. Cowell had taken them aside at their going-away party to let them know what he would be announcing to the company in early May: he'd sold Syco to Capitol Records. He handed them the reel-to-reel tape and said, "Listen to this and you'll understand." And of course, the first thing Blake did when they got into the house was find the machine and put on the tape. Out of the speakers, a voice did the count: "One-two-three-four!"

[I Saw Her Standing There](http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/song/I_Saw_Her_standing_there/23360530)

"Pretty straight-ahead dance rock," Blake said, starting to twist. "Dunno why it's got Cowell so excited. Great harmonies. Wonder who the session band is."

Chris picked up the insert from the acetate. "There isn't one," he said. "They're a band, like Buddy Holly and the Crickets."

"Huh," Blake said, dancing over to Chris. "Well, they've got good people picking their songs, anyway."

"Yeah," Chris said, flipping to the songwriting credits. "Oh, wow."

"What?"

"I think I know what has Cowell so scared. They don't have anyone picking their songs."

Blake stopped dancing. "What do you mean?"

Chris looked up. "They wrote these songs."

"What, all of them?" Blake asked, taking the offered insert.

"Well, half of them," Chris said, looking over Blake's shoulder. "But look at the others. They're all covers, not songs given to them."

"Jesus, 'Chains' is that song Kelly and Daughtry wrote for the Kittens last year."

"Yeah, and these two are Shirelles songs. They must like the girl groups."

"And everyone does 'Twist and Shout.' Well, hell," Blake said. "No wonder Cowell was pushing you so hard."

"Then again, they've only really hit in England. Ryan tried them out on his show but he said the kids didn't really go for them. But if they do …"

"Then Cowell is selling high, and so are we." Blake put the insert down and turned, pulling himself into Chris's arms. "No work tonight. I can't even think."

"There's a place down the beach where we can get dinner," Chris said.

"And after that," Blake said, "you can take me into the back bedroom and show me that big strong man everyone keeps talking about."

"All right," Chris said, "but it won't make you any less of a fag."

"No," Blake replied. "I'm going willingly. Begging, even."

The next morning, Chris found Blake out on the porch, in a crew neck and shorts, drinking his tea and smoking. "You're up early," he said.

Blake shrugged. "Must be the fresh air. Or the way you wore me out last night. I can barely sit down."

Chris grinned. "Don't set the beast loose if you can't handle it."

"Did you really say that? Is that your new name for your dick?"

"No, I meant, the beast within," he said, pointing at his own chest. "You were begging for it, remember?"

"And I'll do it again," Blake replied. "So you're finally going to show me what's in that bag?" he asked.

Chris nodded. He opened it, and dumped onto the table a pile of small books with colored covers.

"What are these?" Blake asked.

"Plays," Chris replied.

"So we're really going to do this," Blake said, sitting up.

"Yeah. Never mind writing stories in a song. We're going to write a story _with_ songs. And I'm sure there must be something here that we can use."

Chris, being a bit more organized than Blake, made three piles for each of them: rejects, possibilities, and "you must read this right now." They walked into town for lunch, ordered some groceries while there, and returned, only knocking off work when Blake finally cried "uncle" sometime after ten at night. By then they had moved inside, and were sitting at either end of the couch, their legs entwined.

"No one should ever make a musical out of _Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf_. Or, for that matter, any Albee play. Who sings words like, 'abstruse'?"

"Sondheim," Chris replied, closing the play he was reading. "You should look at this play first thing tomorrow, though," he said, sliding it over to Blake.

"That's an odd title: _I Am a Camera_. Well, as Sondheim would say, plays tomorrow, sex tonight."

"That doesn't scan," Chris replied.

"I don't care. I'm off the clock." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Damn, I forgot to buy Luckies when we were in town."

"Marlboros for you, then," Chris said, tossing Blake his half-empty pack.

"You know, a man's cigarette brand, it's personal. You're a Marlboro Man through and through."

"I like to think I was a cowboy in a previous life," Chris said, smiling.

"Me, I've always smoked Luckies, since high school," Blake said, getting up from the couch.

Chris got up as well, turning off the lamps as they walked back to the bedroom. "Easy on your throat?"

"No," Blake said, pulling off his sweater.

Chris walked into the room behind him, shedding his own jeans and t-shirt. "Reach for one instead of a sweet?"

"No," Blake said.

Chris sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched the muscles in Blake's back and shoulders ripple as he tidied up the room.

"No more guesses?" Blake asked. He stood at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, the top two buttons of his fly open (nothing on underneath; there never was unless he was in dress pants). Chris could just see the way his hair thickened and darkened below his tummy.

Chris licked his lips. "No, I'm pretty sure I know the answer," he said, sliding off his boxers and tossing them past Blake into the open hamper.

Blake pulled off his shorts. "So, Chris Richardson, what is your answer?" He grabbed Chris's ankles, yanking him down so he was lying flat on the bed, then crawled toward Chris, every inch the cat.

Chris's voice hitched in his throat. He waited until Blake was kneeling over him, one hand on either side of his shoulders, and then said, "So round," putting a hand on one side of his ass, "so firm," he raised his other hand to the other side, "so fully packed," and he sank his fingers into the flesh, the flesh that was his to hold, which was a fucking amazing thing when he really thought about it, as he was right now.

"That is correct," Blake said, laughing breathily, his lips just out of Chris's reach.

"Don Pardo, tell me what I've won," Chris whispered.

"A new car," Blake said, kissing him, "a dinette set," another kiss, "and a year's supply of Blake Lewis."

"Just a year?" Chris asked between kisses.

Blake pulled back, looking into Chris's eyes, long enough that Chris wondered if he'd misspoken, long enough that he started to get that butterfly pinned to cardboard feeling again. Finally, he whispered, "A lifetime supply?"

Chris grinned widely. "That's more like it," he said, and they were kissing again, and Blake was shaking a little, so Chris pulled his hands up from the lovely ass to those big strong shoulders and held him tight, stroking him, kissing the calm back into him, until Blake released his lips and slid down, kissing along Chris's chin and neck, licking his collarbone and nuzzling into his armpit. Chris had let go of his shoulders, putting his arms behind his head, just watching Blake move.

Blake pulled Chris's nipple into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth and then licking it. He moved further down, sliding his cheek along Chris's stomach, and whispered, "What do you want, Chris?"

"I want you to fuck me."

"Oh really?" Blake replied, not looking up. "Which way?"

"Like this."

Blake sat up on his knees, and Chris looked down his body, his hairy chest and tummy, the heavily muscled legs, and in the center his thick, hard cock rising out of its nest of dark hair. "Too lazy to move?" Blake asked, leaning over to grab the Vaseline from the nightstand.

"No, just enjoying the view."

"Oh," Blake said. He fumbled with the jar lid.

"Hey, whenever anyone else comments on your looks you're fine with it."

"They aren't talking about me."

"Well, who are they talking about?"

"I don't know. That guy up on stage. That guy in the club. That funny songwriter. I don't know. Not me. You know me, my insides. It's different."

"Then I'll have to say it more often," Chris said, stroking Blake's thigh with one hand, "so you'll get used to it."

"Um, all right," Blake said. He moved to be between Chris's legs, rather than straddling them, and Chris spread them wide, tipping up his ass. Then he scooped a bit of Vaseline onto his fingertips and slowly slid two of them into Chris, who moaned.

"Just like that," Chris muttered, his eyes fixed on Blake. He loved the way Blake's blunt fingers made it a little rough, even when Blake was trying to be gentle, and had gotten him to start with two, not one, so he could feel that sudden invasion that made his stomach flip flop. "It's fine, it's enough."

Blake scowled at him, and Chris knew that he didn't think it was enough, but Chris didn't really care. If it weren't for the fucking, this would be his favorite part, watching Blake slick himself up. Blake set down the jar, rubbing the gel off his hands on Chris's thighs as he moved them into position. Then he leaned in, sinking his cock into Chris's ass in one long slow fluid motion.

They kissed, soft and wet, taking their time, until finally Chris muttered, "Are you going to move, ever?"

Blake chuckled, without breaking the kiss, and started to thrust, first a bit shallow, then long and deep and slow, and Chris rose up to meet him.

Chris moved his hands down to rest on Blake's lower back, feeling the muscles working, working him over, really, and that was a sexy thought, the way that they were all entangled. My body is your body. My pleasure is your pleasure. Blake was inside him and all around him, closer than close, no part not touching—even their feet were rubbing against each other. He knew at some point they'd have to stop; they'd come, they'd get tired, they'd fall asleep, but it was the middle he liked the best, and the way that when Blake was topping he was never in much of a hurry.

After some minutes, Blake said, "Ready?" and at Chris's nod he sat up just a bit, and began to thrust harder, faster, tipping his hips and Chris's so his cock would rub against Chris's prostate, making him growl with the pleasure of it.

Chris hadn't moved his hands from Blake's back, and as he thrust faster it built up in him even more: those strong muscles and the sweet ass just beneath them; his cock slamming hot and thick and deep into Chris; the sweat glistening on the hairs on his chest; the determined scowl on his face; the sinews in his strong arms standing out as they held up his torso. Only one thing missing. "Open your eyes," Chris said.

Blake had his head tipped down, so when he slowly looked at Chris it was up, through his thick eyelashes, and Chris thought he might have shot fire out of them. Chris came, suddenly, clenching tight around Blake's cock, shouting his name, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could watch Blake watching him.

Blake thrust a few more times and then he was coming, too, kissing Chris with the force of it, sobbing out Chris's name before collapsing on top of him. They lay there, sweaty and sticky and gasping for breath, Blake's head resting on Chris's chest.

After a bit Blake said, "So that's what it's like, to be watched like that."

"I watch you like that all the time," Chris admitted, running his fingers through Blake's hair. "I just don't let you see."

"Well, now I know how you feel."

"Kinda, yeah. Well, how _you_ make me feel."

Blake shifted, sitting up on his elbow, letting his other hand trail along Chris's chest. "I kinda feel like I should be buying a ring or something. Or a house."

Chris smiled. "For now I think sharing an apartment is all we can afford. We could get some crackerjack rings engraved."

"Nah," Blake said. "Been done. But I'll find something."

Chris took Blake's hand in his. "You know, forever used to seem like such a long time, but now?"

"Now it's not long enough," Blake said, and leaned in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you get the clues? "Love Me Do", the first Beatles single, was released in the UK in November of 1962 and would have been climbing up the charts when Simon was home at Christmas that year. "Please Please Me" was released in January 1963 and shot up to #2; it was released in the US but went nowhere (hence Chris's comment about Ryan playing them and the kids not going for them). Simon sold to Capitol, the label that eventually gains the rights to the Beatles in the US, and given what Simon was up to in the UK in the spring of 1963 you can make your own conclusions on how that deal was structured. The tape that Simon gives to Blake and Chris, then, is the _Please Please Me_ album, which had been released in the UK in March and was climbing to a 30-week stay at #1. The song Blake and Chris are listening to, "I Saw Her Standing There," is the first song on the album.  
> The Beatles changed everything, and yet, they didn't. The British Invasion of the US record charts in their wake did sweep many of the artists that the Brill Building songwriters had been writing for off the charts, including Neil Sedaka. But not all of those British acts wrote their own songs as the Beatles did, and in fact many of these songwriters wrote for acts like Herman's Hermits (remember Peter Noone on 60s week?) and later, of course, The Monkees. But between Bob Dylan and the Beatles, the "rockist" idea that serious musicians should be writing their own songs took hold, moving into the singer-songwriter trend of the 1970s. So when Simon said to Ryan that "it will all be over soon" that's what he meant, that this way of making music would end, and in many ways it did until producer-driven disco rose in the mid-70s.  
> For more on rockism, see Kalefa Sanneh's brilliant New York Times article "[The Rap Against Rockism](http://www.nytimes.com/2004/10/31/arts/music/31sann.html)," and point your rock-snob friends to it the next time they make fun of you for watching American Idol.


	9. Instead of a Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which years go by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These amazing graphics were created by [](http://ali-wildgoose.livejournal.com/profile)[**ali_wildgoose**](http://ali-wildgoose.livejournal.com/), whom I cannot thank enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our cast of characters:  
> **Ryan Seacrest** is based partly on his own sweet self, partly on [Dick Clark](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dick_Clark) (who really was one of the first to play the Beatles), partly on his mentor [Merv Griffin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merv_Griffin) (the game show stuff) and partly on label owner/movie exec [David Geffen](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Geffen) (who has raised tons of money for AIDS charities).  
> **Simon Cowell** is mostly himself, with elements of [Don Kirshner](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Kirshner) and [Phil Spector](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phil_Spector).  
> **Randy Jackson** isn't much in evidence, but really is mostly based on himself.  
> **Paula Abdul Cowell** is mostly herself as well, but I was also thinking of [Eartha Kitt](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eartha_Kitt) as well as [Mica Ertegun](http://www.interiordesign.net/HoFDesigners/89.html?bio=all), widow of [Ahmet Ertegun](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ahmet_Erteg%C3%BCn) and one of the top interior designers of the past century.  
> **The Kittens** really are any girl group you want.  
> **Kat McPhee** is very slightly based on [Diana Ross](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diana_Ross), but only if you squint.  
> **Gina Glocksen** is based somewhat on [Ronnie Spector](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronnie_Spector) and somewhat on [Joan Jett](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_jett), but would have been recording around the same time as [Heart](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heart_%28band%29).  
> **Kelly Clarkson** is based on [Carole King](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carole_King), and there's a joke in there if you want to find it.  
> **Chris Daughtry**, naturally, is based on [Gerry Goffin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerry_Goffin).  
> **Elliott Yamin** is based partially on [Arif Mardin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arif_Mardin).  
> As for our heroes, they weren't based on any particular pop songwriting team, but there are clues enough in the last part, this and the next one for you to guess which Broadway songwriting team they're based on. More on that in the next chapter!


	10. I'd Walk a Mile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which friends gather together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated to three fantabulous men: "Handsome Jeff", who didn't get to see the nineties (and would have loved them, darling); golden-haired Walter, who made me feel better about being smart (why the big suit indeed) and also left us far too soon; and my uncle, who is living into his eighties in Connecticut with his lover of over thirty years, and who wasn't as lucky as Blake and Chris—he had to run his car into a tree before he realized that he'd rather be out than dead. (Blake's line about Rymon and his parents I have said about my two uncles more than once.) Because of him I learned about the birds and the bees and homosexuality all in one big bundle, and that's how I intend to teach my kids. And sort of because of him, or really his sister my mom, I learned how to be a good fag hag, which has probably been more useful than almost anything. Of course, slash wouldn't be possible without the fag to my hag, my own P____, who is luckier than Jeff and Walter were, but only in time. I love you, my own boys.

_September 28, 1992_

"I'm glad the calendar has reset," Blake said. "Last year it was almost too warm. Today it's really fall."

"I don't think they call it 'resetting'," Chris said. "But you're right about the weather."

Gathering for Rosh Hashanah had started in 1966, when Elliott and Kat were first married and still living most of the year in New York. Kat, who had converted, jumped into Judaism with the same fervor she had for singing, somehow convincing Chris, Blake, Haley and Gina to come to their apartment for the holiday. After that, it became a tradition that grew every year, moving out to Fire Island in the early seventies. By then nearly everyone except Chris and Blake were living full time in LA, so they needed the bedrooms in their and Ryan's beach houses to hold all the guests. Late September was a welcome lull between summer tours and the run up to the Christmas retail season, and being out at the beach during the off season with friends felt like a better year-end celebration than January, especially as nearly all of them worked on New Year's. It wasn't very religious anymore; more like an excuse for friends to gather, one they'd felt the need for after Sligh's death.

Chris and Blake were carrying two dishes over to Ryan's, where the dinner would be served, but were taking their time strolling down the beach, enjoying a moment alone. They had a houseful, with Kat and Elliott and Gina and Haley filling two extra bedrooms, though it wasn't nearly as chaotic as when there had been several small children running in every direction. And they'd see everyone, and even more friends, in a month for a benefit concert in Ace's honor, with the proceeds going to Ryan's foundation.

"Can't we stay out here? I don't want to go to Toronto on Wednesday," Chris said. "I have a bad feeling this show isn't going to get past the out-of-town. Who wants to watch prisoners sing about their fantasy woman?"

"No talking about work today," Blake sing-songed. "Besides, if we get to London we can stay in Simon's house!"

"You make it sound like you don't care how the show does as long as you get to stay in that house."

"If the show doesn't do well, Chris, we won't be in London, and we won't be able to stay in the house. And now we are going to stop talking about work."

"We're about there anyway. Oh, are those our hosts I see?" Chris replied, pointing to two men sitting on the beach under a blanket. He waved, and Simon and Ryan waved back, so Chris and Blake turned to walk toward them.

"Are you two getting old? It's not that cold out here," Blake said.

Simon stuck out his tongue.

"It's nice to know that you can still act like a ten-year-old now that you're almost eighty," Ryan said.

"Ryan, I have no vices left. My hair has gone gray, I have to watch my cholesterol, and I can't even smoke anymore. Let me have some fun."

"I let you have all the fun you want. The only reason we're under this blanket is that you can't keep your hands to yourself."

Blake shook his head. "You two are like some bizarre gay version of my parents."

"Excuse me," Ryan replied, "but I am only seven years older than you."

"All right, kids, zip up and come into the house," Chris said.

"Only if you'll keep Katharine away from me," Simon replied. "She ordered me around all morning."

"Shut up, you loved it," Ryan said. "You'll still do anything she asks you to do."

"That's why I need her to stay away, Ryan," Simon said.

"Up up," Chris ordered with a hand motion, and after a bit of shifting and brushing off, the four of them headed up the beach toward Ryan's house, waving at their friends on the deck before walking in through the side door.

"Hello, other house people," Blake said.

Daughtry, sitting in the living room with Kelly, shook his head. "You'd think you hadn't just had us over for brunch, Blake."

Chris walked further into the room. "Do your spouses know you're sitting together on the couch like this?" he teased.

Kelly rolled her eyes. "Brian wants to quit law school," she said, referring to their youngest, "and join a band."

"Ooh," Blake said, wincing. "Hard to argue that one."

"No kidding," Daughtry answered.

Chris was about to answer, when two large dogs came bounding into the room. "Whoa, well, I guess Gina and Haley are here."

Simon, hearing the noise, came in from the kitchen. "Why do lesbians always have large dogs?"

"Why do gay men always have small dogs?" Blake asked.

"Paula has small dogs," Simon replied.

"Paula is a gay man," said Ryan, who'd come into the room after him. "That's why you married her."

Haley ran into the room. "I am so sorry," she said. "Come on girls, back outside!" she ordered, and the dogs quickly complied.

"Hey now," Daughtry said. "Being nice about the ex is rule one of the amicable divorce and remarriage."

"I love Paula, and I always have, but you really can't argue that point. Here, Kat wants these things," he said, and Blake handed over the food they'd brought.

"We'll leave you to this," Chris said to Kelly and Daughtry. "Ace will start calling for us in a second anyway."

"He already has," Haley said. "Something about beaches?"

Chris looked at Blake, who shrugged. They headed out to the deck.

As they walked through the door, Brandon said, "Well, here they are, so if you don't believe me, you can ask them."

"What?" Blake asked, sitting next to Gina.

"He thinks he's starting to look like Barbara Hershey in _Beaches_," Tamyra said.

"You'd have to get collagen injections for that," Chris said.

"And a lot more blush," Blake added.

"I told you, honey, I love you, but I'm not going down that _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane_ road with you," Brandon said.

Ace and Brandon had moved out to Ryan's house permanently back in May. Ace was holding court, as he did most days, from a large cushioned rattan chair in a sheltered corner of the porch, bundled against the slight late afternoon chill with blankets, a sweater, and a jaunty cap. But he still shivered a little, and his skin was ashen.

"What about that __Camille__ idea with the pillows and the flowers and coughing delicately into a silk handkerchief?" Tamyra asked.

"You need movie lighting for that, and no one wants to pay all that money to ConEd," Brandon replied. "And I am not changing the water for all those flowers. This ain't _Imitation of Life_."

Ace waved his hand grandly. "It's too foreign-looking. I was America's Sweetheart!"

"I thought that was Kat," Gina said.

"You'll miss me!" Ace said. "Whose death will you be irreverent about when I'm gone?"

"Brandon's," they all said, almost at once.

Kelly and Daughtry came through the sliding door. "Are we still choosing a death scene for Ace?" Daughtry asked. He handed a beer to Bo, then sat down next to Tamyra, putting a hand on her thigh.

"What about _Brian's Song_?" Bo asked. "You guys kinda look like Jimmy Caan and Billy Dee."

"That's the way," Daughtry agreed. "Backstage at the benefit Brandon could give a big speech about singing our hearts out for Ace. God, I cried at the end of that movie."

"So did I," Chris said.

"You boys are fucking with my gaydar," Kelly said, "and it isn't fair."

"Or," Bo said, "Ace could get up and say, 'Today I consider my self-elf-elf …"

"The luckiest man-man-man …" Chris continued.

"On the face of the earth-earth-earth," Daughtry finished.

"I could do that," Ace said. "Don't look at me like that, Brandon. That's _Gary Cooper_."

Elliott poked his head out the door, but before he could say anything Gina shouted, "Shut the door!" so he quickly came through the door, shutting it behind him.

"Sorry," Gina said. "It's how the dogs got in."

"That's fine," Elliott said. "It's almost time for dinner, but since we have a couple of taped messages to watch, we thought we'd call everyone into the living room."

"Taped messages?" Tamyra said. "This weekend is becoming a damn awards show."

The friends regathered in front of the television, dogs and all, and the chefs—Haley, Ryan, and Kat—came in from the kitchen. Simon stood in the front.

"Right, everyone here? Okay, this first one is from Phil," he said, and popped in the tape.

Phil had come to the first few large gatherings, in the late '60s, but he found it too painful with Sligh not there, and in 1970 he and his wife and their family (which had expanded when they took in the Slighs' children) moved down to Miami, where Phil built a studio of his own and became a successful producer. He appeared on the screen, next to his wife. "Hey, y'all, sorry we couldn't make it, but know we're there in spirit. We want to wish you all a great holiday and a good year, and you keep right on visiting us when you're in Miami. We'll see you all next month at the benefit!"

"I hope we do," Ace whispered to Brandon.

"Come on now," Brandon whispered back. "He said he'd come." He kissed Ace on the cheek. "Happy thoughts."

Ace smiled, but he squeezed Brandon's hand just a little tighter.

"And here," Simon said, switching tapes, "is our message from Paula."

They heard Paula's laugh before she came on the screen. "Hello everyone from Paris! Can you believe it? I'm doing a show here, but you know I'll be in town in a few weeks for Ace's concert! I wish I could be there, but I sent you a present for the table. Jacques, come on! Come on!" A young man, who evidently had been operating the camera, came on the screen; he looked to be about thirty-five. "This is Jacques, my new music director. Isn't he adorable? I beat you, Simon!" She laughed, kicking her feet up in the air, and then the screen went dark.

"Oh my god," Ryan said. "I am not Simon's _boy toy_."

"It's karma," Kelly said, "because you called her a gay man."

"Nah," Elliott said, putting a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Brother, I think we're all boy toys."

"What about Gina and Haley?" Ryan asked.

"That's a tough one," Daughtry said. "But I'd say Haley."

"Why?" Tamyra asked.

"She wrangles the dogs," Bo said.

"I don't know why we have to be so gender essentialist," Haley said.

"Gender essentialist?" Simon asked, shaking his head. "What happened to the girl we once knew?"

Blake laughed. "She got herself some—"

Chris firmly clamped a hand over Blake's mouth. "Blake, this is a _family event_."

"Why isn't anyone asking which one of us is the boy toy?" Brandon wondered.

"Oh, honey," Ace said, "it's so sweet that you can't see it."

"Well, what about them?" Brandon asked, nodding over in Chris and Blake's direction.

They all stared at the pair, as Chris removed his hand from Blake's mouth. "What?" Blake asked.

Gina cocked her head. "Chris," she pronounced.

"_I'm_ the boy toy?" he asked.

"You turned down fame," Ace said, "and therefore you cannot be a diva."

"But so did Blake!" Chris protested.

"Not so publicly," Tamyra said. "Also, you're younger."

"By _three years_!"

"Can we continue this at the table?" Kat asked. "Dinner is ready."

As everyone else filed into the dining room, Chris turned to Blake. "I am not your boy toy."

"Of course not," Blake said, smiling. "We don't even _have_ any dogs."

"Hmph," Chris said, folding his arms and scowling.

"C'mon, I don't want a boy toy," Blake said. "Then I'd have to be a diva, and that's too much work."

Chris turned to Blake, and his face softened. "Well, that's all right then."

"I'm so glad I'm in love with you," Blake said, kissing him on the cheek.

Chris smiled, and put one hand on Blake's back to lead him into dinner. "Me too, man. Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is over, but follow the series tags for two missing scenes and an additional story in this same 'verse.
> 
> When I started this story I thought I would base Chris and Blake on [Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boyce_and_hart), but once I settled on the Beatles ending the timing didn't work. So they aren't really based on any pop songwriting team in particular.  
> But their Broadway career is 100% based on that of [John Kander and Fred Ebb](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kander_and_Ebb), the writers behind _Cabaret_ (based on the play _I Am a Camera_, referenced in ch 8), _Chicago_, and _Kiss of the Spider Woman_ (referenced in this chapter), who started writing together in 1963. They really did win a Grammy in '67 (for the Broadway cast album of _Cabaret_), their first Tony in '67 (for _Cabaret_), their first Oscar in '72 (for a song from _Funny Lady_), and an Emmy in '73 (for the TV special _Liza with a "Z"_). They continued to be successful, winning more Tonys in 1981 and 1993 (for KotSW) as well as an Oscar for Chicago, and were nominated for another Tony this year for their final show, Curtains. They also worked directly with Liza Minnelli very often, as well as Bob Fosse. They wrote shows that were traditional but modern, catchy but also naughty, which is just how I picture Blake and Chris on Broadway during the same period.


	11. Missing Scene—Ryan and Simon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Paula sends Simon to make things right with Ryan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because [Radio Friendly](http://jlh.livejournal.com/355823.html) is really the story of Chris and Blake, and from one or another of their POV, there was no way to really pay off on Ryan and Simon's background angst. But I'd always known exactly what had happened, and I think I should give Paula her due. Takes place immediately after the end of chapter 7, when Taylor pitches Chris as a singer to the rest of Syco.  
> Thanks to [](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**lillijulianne**](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/) and [](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/profile)[**allysonsedai**](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/)!

_February 19, 1963_

Simon Cowell did not generally walk home from his office in midtown to his penthouse on Central Park West—he had a car, thank you—but with the failed pitch meeting and the talk with Ryan after he had a killer headache and needed the fresh air. He'd left the office soon after Ryan had stormed out (well, not stormed, more like resignedly shuffled, which was worse, really) and would home in plenty of time to watch Ryan's show. Simon wasn't sure if Ryan knew that he watched the show every day, that it was the only reason he had a television in his office, and that he'd had Cat put a permanent 4-5 meeting on his calendar which could not be rescheduled and from which he could not be disturbed. A few times, when he hadn't seen Ryan in a while, he'd even masturbated to it. Ryan didn't know that, of course; he'd never hear the end of it if Ryan ever found out that sometimes just the sound of his voice could make Simon hard as a rock.

Even eight months ago, he would have told you that he had a fantastic life. He'd built Syco into a top label with great people, he had a wife who kept him amused but didn't make him go to society events, and he had a boyfriend who was too much of a workaholic to ask him for more than he could give. But over the summer Ryan had settled into his schedule and had been making noises about wanting to see him more than once a week, and then at Christmas he'd seen the future, and he wasn't sure how he fit into it. He'd even pinned all his hopes on one young man, which wasn't like him at all; Simon was smart enough to have a finger in as many pies as possible. Really, why _wouldn't_ he sign black and white artists and writers, when they both made him money? But desperation always leads to stupidity. Somehow, somewhere, he had to get some control back.

"Hey there Mr. Cowell," said the doorman. "Early day at work?"

"Long day, actually," he replied.

Once in the flat he headed straight for his den (the only room in their duplex where Paula allowed a television) and poured himself a scotch. God, he was off his game—he hadn't even had the energy to flirt with the elevator girl. He kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket on the couch, and turned on the telly before collapsing into his reading chair. Ryan's show hadn't started quite yet, so he had to endure the silly women's chat show on before him; Simon had heard that ABC was soon to launch a soap opera in this time slotand he couldn't wait, because anything had to be better than this.

He sensed someone's presence and looked up to see Paula standing in the doorway. She rarely snuck up on him, her presence always announced by those dogs, and he wondered where they were. "Drink?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, walking into the room and sitting in the club chair next to his.

He made Paula the bourbon and soda she preferred but would only drink in front of him; in public she ordered more "ladylike" gin and tonics. They sat for a moment, sipping and watching the chat show host attempting to make a French omelet while being coached by a very tall woman with a loud patrician voice who reminded Simon of his mother's friends at the Women's Institute. There was a news break (more missile talks with the Soviets, which was the news every day it seemed) and then Ryan came on the screen.

"Simon, what are we doing?" she asked.

"What?"

Paula sighed. "When's the last time you really looked at him?"

Simon was about to protest—he'd just seen Ryan a few hours before, hadn't he looked at him then? Suddenly he remembered talking to Richardson in his and Lewis's office, and not even noticing that Ryan was there. He stared at the screen.

Now, television made many look tired but Ryan, to anyone who knew him, looked like hell. Sure, he had the plastic smile, the perfectly coiffed hair, the sharp suit, the easy manner, but his eyes didn't sparkle. No one could fake enthusiasm better than Ryan, but Simon had never seen him have to fake it quite so much. And his suit, while sharp, hung off him a bit in the middle. When had this happened? Why hadn't he noticed? After all he slept with the man—well, come to think of it, he hadn't actually slept with Ryan since he'd come back from England. They'd had little trysts, but not much more, and often in the middle of the day. He didn't think they'd even had dinner since sometime in early January.

"You're gonna lose him," Paula was saying. "Maybe not to someone else, but he's slipping away."

Was everything to be taken from him at once? Simon sighed, slumping down further in his chair. He was tired, and he felt old, like he'd outlived his time. "Maybe he'd be better off with someone else," he said.

"Excuse me? The man I married wouldn't even let a saxophone player go without a fight." Paula put a hand on Simon's arm. "Whatever it is, we can figure it out. You don't need to do this alone. I know you like taking care of us but we want to take care of you, too."

Simon looked up. Since Paula had retired from singing and started decorating, he had let her wander off into what he thought was a fairly superficial world, and was happy that he could provide for her enough that she could do so without a care; he liked seeing her that way. But the determined little spitfire who'd appeared in his office, all those years ago, was still there underneath the frills. He wondered what else he hadn't seen lately, when he'd drifted off into complacency. He grabbed Paula's hand, kissed it, then stood and walked over to the hi-fi. "There's this new band I heard when I was in England," he began, pulling out a 45 …

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After the show, Ryan collapsed into his dressing room and lit up a Camel. He was too worn out to even make himself a drink. Watching Chris stand up to Simon today—he was firm, but so quiet about it—had started the wheels moving in his head. He knew that Simon was worried, even scared, knew that it was behind the entire Richardson mess, but his attempts to get Simon to talk to him about it other than just handing him some songs had all been failures. What was the point of any of this, when Simon wouldn't let him in when it counted?

Chris had become a good friend in the last year and seeing him with Blake, their relationship really so simple while his own was littered with more landmines than any of the fields Ryan had crossed in Korea made him jealous as all hell. It wasn't fair. He was a good guy, he'd served his country and worked hard and paid his taxes and was kind to his mother and had never kicked a dog and all he wanted was to find peace with the man he loved. Okay, fine, the gay thing, but wasn't that _enough_?

He didn't want to answer the knock on the door but sitting in this room pouting wasn't going to do him any good anyway. "Yes?" he called out.

"Message for you, Mr. Seacrest," said the PA, handing him a slip of paper.

"Thanks, Sam," he said, opening the envelope. A phone memo: _I'm coming to your flat with dinner—Sheila_. Ryan smiled at Simon's silly code name for himself; his own was Meg, though as he was usually leaving messages with Cat it didn't matter quite as much. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had dinner together. Maybe the meeting had affected Simon, too? He didn't dare hope for anything more than dinner, given the way Simon had behaved lately. But he couldn't help whistling as he walked into the shower in his dressing room.

It was after six when he unlocked the door of his own apartment in the Village. "What smells so great?" he asked. "I'm starving."

Simon, who was sitting on the couch reading some papers, sprung up. "Beef Burgundy. And shrimp cocktail. Come here." He pulled Ryan in close, kissing him soundly. "Hello."

"Hello," Ryan replied, smiling. Simon turned and led him to his kitchen table, which sported a fancy tablecloth and dinnerware he was sure he didn't own. "What's the occasion? And where is this all from?"

"21 Club," Simon replied, pouring Ryan a glass of wine, "and the occasion is, I've been selfish and I'm sorry."

"Selfish?" Ryan asked, helping himself to a shrimp.

"Paula explained to me today that not letting the people who love you help you through a hard time is a kind of selfishness," Simon said. "Also I don't like the way you don't eat when you're upset."

"It's better than overeating."

"I don't know about that," Simon replied, "but have another shrimp. You need to fatten back up."

"I won't say no. So, what is it? Why did you say it will all be over soon because of those songs?"

"What did you think of them?" Simon asked.

Ryan cocked his head, as though listening to them again. "Really catchy pop. If they don't hit with this record, they will soon with something else."

"Right. What else?"

"Well, so they write their own songs, mostly, which is why you were so fired up about Chris."

"Yes. And look what's happening around the corner from this flat."

"The folk thing? But a lot of those people are singing traditional songs, or Pete Seeger stuff, or that new Dylan fella."

"Who has a record coming out in three months."

"And that all means the Syco factory …"

"Is on the wane. Oh, it will go on for a while, but I've never liked being on the down slope of a trend."

"All right. If you could do anything now, what would it be?"

"I hadn't thought about it." Simon took a bite of shrimp. "I reckon I'd head over to London and scout those bands, try to give them a major American release. Lord knows Vee Jay is doing nothing for the Beatles now."

"So why don't you?"

"Well, but who would run Syco? Randy doesn't have time and the writers won't report to Hicks, nor should they."

"How much could you get for it?

"What, you mean sell the label?"

"You said yourself that it will go on for a while. What if they aren't seeing what you see? They're not signing the Beatles and half the reason Columbia didn't drop Dylan was that Johnny Cash made so much noise. Syco had five of the top twenty singles of 1962; it's a good prospect. Sell high. Sell high, and go back to scouting bands."

"And change my entire life with the stroke of a pen?"

"Well, not your entire life. I'll still be here."

Simon looked down at his plate. "Paula wants a divorce."

Ryan, who'd been reaching for his sixth shrimp, froze in place. "She—but I thought we were okay? It isn't because of me, is it?"

"No. Or, well, yes, but no. She er, she's done being married, she says. She wants to have fun. And she thinks it's time for me to leave the nest."

"Like she's your mother?"

Simon laughed, finally looking at Ryan. "Paula is _nothing_ like my mother. No, she just, she thinks I should give this a go. She said you deserve that, and, well, I agree."

"Simon, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying," and he took Ryan's hand in his, "that I don't want you to be the other woman any more. However you want to arrange that. I can buy a place that we can share or not, or I don't know. I don't really know what to do next." He stood up. "But you've eaten all the shrimp, so it's time for beef in sauce."

Ryan twirled his spoon around his fingers as Simon pulled two covered plates out of the warm oven. "Of course I want to live with you," Ryan said. "I just don't know how."

"We have time. We can work that out," Simon said, setting the plates down before Ryan and himself. "In the meantime, I reckon I should do some scouting. You still have those two weeks off in March?"

"Yeah," Ryan said around a mouthful. "Why?"

"Well, if you still want to go to Europe, we could make it look like a business trip, you know, going out every night to see acts, maybe you could even do some interviews. I still know the good places to go."

Ryan stopped chewing. "Simon Cowell, I swear to God you'd better not be kidding. If you change your mind, I just—I don't think I could take it. This afternoon you said—"

"Never mind this afternoon," Simon said. "That wasn't me." He set down his fork. "Come to England with me, Ryan."

Ryan grinned, grinned so his cheeks ached, and wondered if that was because he hadn't really grinned in months. "Okay. Okay, I'll go. Wow. England. I'd kiss you—"

Simon waved it away. "Plenty of time for kissing later. Eat now, get some meat back on those bones. We've got some catching up to do. You'll be getting sick of me."

"Never," Ryan said. "It would take decades to get sick of you."

"Then decades you shall have," Simon said. "All this change is making me feel like a young man again. At this rate I'll never leave."

Ryan smiled. "That sounds just fine. So tomorrow morning, don't be surprised if I call you to ask if all this actually happened."

"No, don't call," Simon said.

Ryan nodded. _Plus ça change_ … But Simon was still talking.

"I'll still be here," he added.

Ryan shook his head. "You'll still—you've never stayed here before."

Simon shrugged. "New life, Ryan. I can do anything."

"Maybe you should pinch me now, make sure I'm not dreaming," Ryan said.

"Nah," Simon said. "You're sitting on the good pinching part."

"You're a lech," Ryan said.

"Still sure about that decades business?"

"You bet."

Simon raised his glass. "Here's to us, then."

"Here's to us," Ryan said as he clinked his glass against Simon's. "I love you."

"I love you too, Ryan. Now eat before it gets cold."

Ryan looked down at his plate, spearing a carrot with his fork, but first he closed his eyes. _Thank you_, he thought. _Thank you, whoever you are that looks after us. If I'm ever needed to lend a hand, just call on me. _Thus satisfied with what he owed the universe, and realizing he was very hungry for the first time in a long time, he reached for another dinner roll, because if Simon was staying overnight, he was going to need all the stamina he could get.


	12. Missing Scene—Blake and Chris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blake and Chris exorcise some demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting this part of the story in the middle of chapter 8 would have thrown the whole thing out of balance: dance, sex, read, sex. But what they did that first night they were staying at Ryan's beach house wouldn't leave my head. So here it is: the night Blake set loose the beast within Chris.  
> Thanks to [](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**lillijulianne**](http://lillijulianne.livejournal.com/) and [](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/profile)[**allysonsedai**](http://allysonsedai.livejournal.com/)!

_May 1, 1963_

"Dum, dum-de-doo," Blake hummed to himself as he wiped his hands. Dinner had been good: fish and salad and pie, and he wasn't as tired as he had been so that must have been hunger. He'd settled up the bill and run to the can, and now he took a moment, staring at himself in the mirror. They had just quit their jobs, and yet he wasn't scared at all. Something or other would work itself out; the music was too good. And knowing that, these last ten weeks finishing up at Syco, he also realized that Chris wasn't just moving in for now, but that this was it, permanent, and that didn't scare him either. Which was odd, because he'd always thought it would.

Still, there were some things they'd put in a box, that first night all those months ago, that needed to be taken out and looked at again before Blake, anyway, could say the forever stuff that he knew Chris wanted to hear, knew that Chris was keeping himself from saying. That was fine, too, because pushing the relationship forward had never been the job of one or the other of them, but flowed back and forth, the way the writing did. People would ask, who writes the words and who the music, but they both did both, really, sort of on top of each other, refining the other's work until they weren't really sure who had done what. Today was his turn.

He went outside and saw that Chris had walked down near the ferry dock and was standing in the wind, looking out at the water. He'd read in a book somewhere about wanting a hopeless passion—_there is the back of his adorable head_—and he'd thought it was silly at the time, but it was true: there was the back of Chris's adorable head, the broad set of his shoulders, the narrow waist under the boxy jacket, the round ass and powerful thighs encased in denim, sneakered feet crossed at the ankles. Manly, yet there always was a boyishness about him. The idea that he was Blake's, and would be, if asked, for the rest of their lives washed over Blake like a wave, and he couldn't work out whether to laugh or cry.

Instead he said, "Miss the navy?"

Chris turned around and smiled. "Nah. Miss Chesapeake, I guess." Chris watched as Blake walked down to him, waiting until he was at the rails, and as usual Blake pulled himself up, standing on the lower railing and hanging onto the top one, which brought his head up level with Chris's. Not that this was why; he was just a climber by nature.

"Yeah?"

Chris turned back to the water. "Something about being in a beach town in the off-season, reminds me of being a kid. The summer's fine, that's when the people come and everyone makes all their money off 'em, and sure it's hard to get around town but you know that you won't get sweet rolls in December if Mrs. Bailey can't sell 'em by the dozen in July. But being on a beach in the winter, or the spring, or the fall? That's just for us locals, that's our reward for selling the summer to the tourists. The sand is cold under your feet and the ocean is stormy and the wind is blowing saltwater in your face and a buncha birds are flying around squawking. I guess that's why I went into the navy; couldn't imagine being away from it." He looked at Blake. "Ready to go back?"

Blake nodded, hopping down from his perch, and they walked up to the boardwalk that lead back to Ryan's house. "I'd like to see Chesapeake in the winter. You know, if it wouldn't upset your folks too much."

Chris shrugged. "Gotta tell 'em sometime I guess." He kicked a rock off into the brush. "But you know what else I like about this place?"

"What?"

"I can walk around holding your hand," he said, pulling it up to kiss the back of it.

"Would you look at that."

Chris grinned. "You still want that big strong man tonight?"

"Yep, so you'd better get all the poetry out on the walk home." Blake cocked his head just a little, even though he knew that his charm didn't work on Chris, not one little bit, but it amused him, which was almost as good.

When they got back Chris asked, "If I'm the strong man, who will you be? Just you? Because that's kinda weird."

"No, fair's fair. I'll be that little slut you thought you were getting."

"Oh, I never thought I'd be getting him. But I'll take a kiss now, just you and me."

Blake gave, and Chris took, and then Blake walked ahead of Chris into the bedroom, thinking about the slut he had been, the persona he wore like a suit of clothes for reasons he didn't like to examine but which Chris could probably guess.

Chris sat down in the chair near the door, his body language already changed into something a little less George Peppard and a little more John Wayne, and god but it was amazing the way Chris always seemed to know where Blake was at without his saying a word. Chris lit a Marlboro, squinting in the smoke, then propped his bare feet up on the low bureau near him. "So whaddya got?" he asked, and even his accent had thickened in the last twenty seconds.

Blake slipped out of his loafers, smiling seductively. "What do you want, baby?" he asked, his voice dropping in pitch. He turned down the bed, then started unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, his eyes locked on Chris's. "I can be soft and screaming, or I can take it and like it." He tossed the shirt aside and unbuckled his belt. "I can beg you, or make you work for it a little, make you feel like a real man." He pulled his belt through the loops, setting it on the bureau, and it was all he could do not to blush hot under Chris's cold stare. "You're not saying much but it looks like your dick is listening," he continued, dropping his eyes down to Chris's crotch as he unfastened his trousers and slipped them off. "Ooh, looks like my dick has been listening, too." He winked at Chris, then sat down on the bed. He swept a hand across his chest, tweaking a hard nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Chris had barely moved, just sat smoking and watching, but there wasn't much cigarette left, and Blake understood that he only had until it was gone to slut it up. He leaned over, reaching into the small toiletry bag that sat next to the bed and pulling out the jar of Vaseline. He popped the square top with his thumb. "I'll even get myself ready for you, baby," he said, scooping out slick jelly with two fingers, then tossing the jar to Chris, who caught it easily with one strong hand, like catching a ball. He bent his knees up to his chin, placing his feet flat on the mattress on either side of his hips, and reached his hand down past his hard cock, past his balls, to the little hole so lewdly displayed, framed between his thighs and the bed. "I don't care what I have to do," he said, sliding his goo-coated fingers into his ass and working them in and out, back and forth. "I just want that pretty cock in me. I'll do anything if you'll fuck me, baby."

Chris stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, then kicked his legs off the bureau and stood up in one fluid motion. He was moving slowly, but Blake could just see the tension in his shoulders, not to mention the bulge in his jeans. He walked up to Blake, still finger fucking himself on the bed, and ran a thumb across Blake's slightly parted lips. "You got no shame at all, do yah," he asked. "Not a shred of dignity."

Blake replied by sucking Chris's thumb into his mouth, grazing his teeth across the pad, and was gratified to see Chris's eyes flare.

"All right," Chris said, taking his hand away and backing up slightly. He shucked his clothes quickly, and Blake hissed a little, seeing Chris's cock so hard just from his little show. "This is what you want?"

"Oh god, _yes_." Blake watched while Chris coated his cock thickly with Vaseline.

"Good, because I'm not stopping." Chris grabbed Blake's legs, using his thighs to slide him backwards until he was in the center of the bed. Then he pounced, pushing Blake's head down to the mattress with the force of his kiss.

Chris's cock sat right at Blake's entrance, teasing him, and he tried to move his hips, as if to pull it in.

"Eager thing, aren't you?" Chris said, grinning, and Blake could swear he suddenly had more teeth than usual.

"_Please_."

Chris sat up just enough to slip the head of his slippery cock in the right spot, then slammed into Blake, hard, and Blake cried out. Chris didn't stop, grabbing Blake's wrists and holding his hands over his head, fucking him hard and staring him right in the eye, and Blake lifted up his hips to meet him, wrapping his thighs around Chris's waist. Blake had pushed Chris before, but he could always feel Chris holding back a little, feel it in his arms and shoulders. But tonight he was giving Blake the full force of it, and it was amazing, to be the focus of all of that power. The bed was creaking like crazy and he couldn't stop whimpering, even when Chris was kissing him again, or really, plundering Blake's mouth with his tongue. His body was nothing but a few holes Chris was using for his pleasure and it was _fantastic_.

"What did you think you were doing, whoring around like that?"

"Looking for you." The words spilled out without Blake really thinking. "I was looking for you."

Chris stopped, just for a half second, staring at Blake. "Well you found me. Happy now?" he asked, and started thrusting again.

"So much," Blake said, and then Chris was kissing him again.

Blake's cock was between their stomachs, but he was pretty sure it wasn't the rubbing that made him come, but the whole thing, all of it, swooping in and overwhelming him, and he screamed out, but Chris barely noticed. He just kept pumping Blake, fucking him harder and deeper and Blake rose up to meet him, as much as he could, until finally Chris was coming, shouting once before collapsing on top of him.

They lay there, catching their breath, until Chris rolled over, slipping out of Blake and letting go of his wrists. Blake pulled his arms back down, then looked at Chris, who was carding one hand through Blake's hair.

"That was really hot," Blake said, smiling.

"It was, wasn't it?" He bit his lip, then asked, "Did you mean that, what you said?"

"About looking for you?"

Chris nodded.

"You know, I never thought about it that way, but I guess I was. And then when I found you, I didn't have to act like that any more. But, I dunno, I guess I wanted you to see. I didn't want there to be a part of me I was ashamed to show you, or you were to show me."

"No, the slut is pretty sexy, you know, so long as he's my slut."

Blake smiled. "Yeah, I'm only slutty for you."

"Good. But the next time we do that?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm saying your name, and I'm saying I love you."

"You are just too good to live, you know that?"

"Well, I love my little, slutty, woodland creature gay boyfriend."

"And I love my big, strong, not so silent gay boyfriend." Blake yawned. "Who just wore me out, man."

"Sleep, then," Chris said, grabbing pillows for them, since they never had made it past the middle of the bed. He kissed Blake's temple, then wrapped himself around Blake, curving his body, and Blake nestled into him. "Happy now?" Chris whispered.

"So much," Blake replied.


End file.
